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and his Symbols 

conceived and edited by 

Carl G. Jung 

The first and only work in which Carl 
G. Jung, the world-famous Swiss psy- 
chologist, explains to the general reader 
his greatest contribution to our knowl- 
edge of the human mind: the theory of 
the importance of symbolism— particu- 
larly as revealed in dreams. 

Man and his 
Carl G. Jung 

But for a dream, this book would never 
have been written. That dream — de- 
scribed by John Freeman in the Fore- 
word-convinced Jung that he could, 
indeed should, explain his ideas to those 
who have no special knowledge of psy- 
chology. At the age of eighty-three, 
Jung worked out the complete plan for 
this book, including the sections that 
he wished his four closest associates to 
write. He devoted the closing months 
of his life to editing the work and writ- 
ing his own key section, which he com- 
pleted only ten days before his death. 

Throughout the book, Jung empha- 
sizes that man can achieve wholeness 
only through a knowledge and accept- 
ance of the unconscious— a knowledge 
acquired through dreams and their 
symbols. Every dream is a direct, per- 
sonal, and meaningful communication 
to the dreamer— a communication that 
uses the symbols common to all man- 
kind but uses them always in an entire- 
ly individual way, which can be inter- 
preted only by an entirely individual 

( Continued on back flap) 

Man and his Symbols 

Man and his Symbols 
Carl G. Jung 

and M.-L. von Franz, Joseph L. Henderson, Jolande Jacobi, Aniela Jaffe' 

Anchor Press * 


New York London Toronto Sydney Auckland 

Editor: Carl G. Jung 

and after his death M.-L. von Franz 

Co-ordinating Editor: John Freeman 

Aldus Editors 
Text: Douglas Hill 
Design: Michael Kitson 

Assistants: Marian Morris, Gilbert Doel, Michael Lloyd 

Research: Margery MacLaren 

Advisers: Donald Berwick, Norman MacKenzie 


An Anchor Press book 

Published by Doubleday a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell 
Publishing Group, Inc., 666 Fifth Ave., New York, NY 10103 

Anchor Press and the portrayal of an anchor are trademarks 
of Doubleday, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing 
Group, Inc. 

except chapter 2 entitled «Ancient myths and modern 
man» by Dr. Joseph L. Henderson, where copyright in 
this chapter within the United States of America is 
expressly disclaimed. 

Library of Congress Catalog Card No: 64-18631 
ISBN 0-385-05221-9 

First published in the United States of America in 1964 

Reprinted in 1968, 1970, 1971, 1972, 1974, 1975, 1976, 1979, 1983, 1988 

Printed and bound in Spain by TONSA, San Sebastian 

Introduction: John Freeman 

The origins of this book are sufficiently unusual to be of interest, and 
they bear a direct relation to its contents and what it sets out to do. So 
let me tell you just how it came to be written. 

One day in the spring of 1959 the British Broadcasting Corporation 
invited me to interview for British television Dr. Carl Gustav Jung. 
The interview was to be done “in depth.” I knew little enough at that 
time about Jung and his work, and I at once went to make his acquaint- 
ance at his beautiful lakeside home near Zurich. That was the beginning 
of a friendship that meant a great deal to me and, I hope, gave some 
pleasure to Jung in the last years of his life. The television interview 
has no further place in this story, except that it was accounted successful 
and that this book is by an odd combination of circumstances an end- 
product of that success. 

One man who saw Jung on the screen was Wolfgang Foges, manag- 
ing director of Aldus Books. Foges had been keenly interested in the 
development of modern psychology since his childhood, when he lived 
near the Freuds in Vienna. And as he watched Jung talking about his 
life and work and ideas, Foges suddenly reflected what a pity it was 
that, while the general outline of Freud’s work was well known to 
educated readers all over the Western world, Jung had never managed 
to break through to the general public and was always considered too 
difficult for popular reading. 

Foges, in fact, is the creator of Man and his Symbols. Having sensed 
from the TV screen that a warm personal relation existed between 
Jung and myself, he asked me whether I would join him in trying to 
persuade Jung to set out some of his more important and basic ideas in 
language and at a length that would be intelligible and interesting to 
non-specialist adult readers. I jumped at the idea and set off once more 
to Zurich, determined that I could convince Jung of the value and 
importance of such a work. Jung listened to me in his garden for two 
hours almost without interruption— and then said no. He said it in the 
nicest possible way, but with great firmness; he had never in the past 
tried to popularize his work, and he wasn’t sure that he could success- 
fully do so now ; anyway, he was old and rather tired and not keen to 
take on such a long commitment about which he had so many doubts. 

Jung’s friends will all agree with me that he was a man of most 
positive decision. He would weigh up a problem with care and without 

hurry; but when he did give his answer, it was usually final. I returned 
to London greatly disappointed, but convinced that Jung’s refusal was 
the end of the matter. So it might have been, but for two intervening 
factors that I had not foreseen. 

One was the pertinacity of Foges, who insisted on making one more 
approach to Jung before accepting defeat. The other was an event that, 
as I look back on it, still astonishes me. 

The television program was, as I have said, accounted successful. It 
brought Jung a great many letters from all sorts of people, many of 
them ordinary folk with no medical or psychological training, who had 
been captivated by the commanding presence, the humor, and the 
modest charm of this very great man, and who had glimpsed in his 
view of life and human personality something that could be helpful to 
them. And Jung was very pleased, not simply at getting letters (his 
mail was enormous at all times) but at getting them from people who 
would normally have no contact with him. 

It was at this moment that he dreamed a dream of the greatest 
importance to him. (And as you read this book, you will understand 
just how important that can be.) He dreamed that, instead of sitting 
in his study and talking to the great doctors and psychiatrists who used 
to call on him from all over the world, he was standing in a public 
place and addressing a multitude of people who were listening to him 
with rapt attention and understanding what he said. . . . 

When, a week or two later, Foges renewed his request that Jung 
should undertake a new book designed, not for the clinic or the philo- 
sopher’s study, but for the people in the market place, Jung allowed 
himself to be persuaded. He laid down two conditions. First, that the 
book should not be a single-handed book, but the collective effort of 
himself and a group of his closest followers, through whom he had 
attempted to perpetuate his methods and his teaching. Secondly, that I 
should be entrusted with the task of co-ordinating the work and resolv- 
ing any problems that might arise between the authors and the 

Lest it should seem that this introduction transgresses the bounds of 
reasonable modesty, let me say at once that I was gratified by this 
second condition — but within measure. For it very soon came to my 
knowledge that Jung’s reason for selecting me was essentially that he 

regarded me as being of reasonable, but not exceptional, intelligence 
and without the slightest serious knowledge of psychology. Thus I was 
to Jung the “average reader” of this book; what I could understand 
would be intelligible to all who would be interested; what I boggled 
at might possibly be too difficult or obscure for some. Not unduly flat- 
tered by this estimate of my role, I have none the less scrupulously in- 
sisted (sometimes, I fear, to the exasperation of the authors) on having 
every paragraph written and, if necessary, rewritten to a degree of 
clarity and directness that enables me to say with confidence that this 
book in its entirety is designed for and addressed to the general reader, 
and that the complex subjects it deals with are treated with a rare and 
encouragipg simplicity. 

After much discussion, the comprehensive subject of this book was 
agreed to be Man and his Symbols; and Jung himself selected as his 
collaborators in the work Dr. Marie-Louise von Franz of Zurich, per- 
haps his closest professional confidante and friend; Dr. Joseph L. Hen- 
derson of San Francisco, one of the most prominent and trusted of 
American Jungians ; Mrs. Aniela Jaffe of Zurich, who, in addition to 
being an experienced analyst, was Jung’s confidential private secretary 
and his biographer; and Dr. Jolande Jacobi, who after Jung himself 
is the most experienced author among Jung’s Zurich circle. These four 
people were chosen partly because of their skill and experience in the 
particular subjects allocated to them and partly because all of them 
were completely trusted by Jung to work unselfishly to his instructions 
as members of a team. Jung’s personal responsibility was to plan the 
structure of the whole book, to supervise and direct the work of his 
collaborators, and himself to write the keynote chapter, “Approaching 
the Unconscious.” 

The last year of his life was devoted almost entirely to this book, and 
when he died in June 1961, his own section was complete (he finished 
it, in fact, only some 10 days before his final illness) and his colleagues’ 
chapters had all been approved by him in draft. After his death, Dr. 
von Franz assumed over-all responsibility for the completion of the 
book in accordance with Jung’s express instructions. The subject matter 
of Man and his Symbols and its outline were therefore laid down — 
and in detail — by Jung. The chapter that bears his name is his work 
and (apart from some fairly extensive editing to improve its intelligi- 

bility to the general reader) nobody else’s. It was written, incidentally, 
in English. The remaining chapters were written by the various authors 
to Jung’s direction and under his supervision. The final editing of the 
complete work after Jung’s death has been done by Dr. von Franz with 
a patience, understanding, and good humor that leave the publishers 
and myself greatly in her debt. 

Finally as to the contents of the book itself: 

Jung’s thinking has colored the world of modern psychology more 
than many of those with casual knowledge realize. Such familiar terms, 
for instance, as “extravert,” “introvert,” and “archetype” are all 
Jungian concepts — borrowed and sometimes misused by others. But his 
overwhelming contribution to psychological understanding is his con- 
cept of the unconscious — not (like the unconscious of Freud) merely 
a sort of glory-hole of repressed desires, but a world that is just as much 
a vital and real part of the life of an individual as the conscious, 
“cogitating” world of the ego, and infinitely wider and richer. The 
language and the “people” of the unconscious are symbols, and the 
means of communications dreams. 

Thus an examination of Man and his Symbols is in effect an exami- 
nation of man’s relation to his own unconscious. And since in Jung’s 
view the unconscious is the great guide, friend, and adviser of the 
conscious, this book is related in the most direct terms to the study of 
human beings and their spiritual problems. We know the unconscious 
and communicate with it (a two-way service) principally by dreams; 
and all through this book (above all in Jung’s own chapter) you will 
find a quite remarkable emphasis placed on the importance of dream- 
ing in the life of the individual. 

It would be an impertinence on my part to attempt to interpret 
Jung’s work to readers, many of whom will surely be far better quali- 
fied to understand it than I am. My role, remember, was merely to 
serve as a sort of “intelligibility filter” and by no means as an inter- 
preter. Nevertheless, I venture to offer two general points that seem 
important to me as a layman and that may possibly be helpful to other 
non-experts. The first is about dreams. To Jungians the dream is not a 
kind of standardized cryptogram that can be decoded by a glossary 
of symbol meanings. It is an integral, important, and personal expres- 
sion of the individual unconscious. It is just as “real” as any other 

phenomenon attaching to the individual. The* dreamer’s individual 
unconscious is communicating with the dreamer alone and is selecting 
symbols for its purpose that have meaning to the dreamer and to 
nobody else. Thus the interpretation of dreams, whether by the analyst 
or by the dreamer himself, is for the Jungian psychologist an entirely 
personal and individual business (and sometimes an experimental and 
very lengthy one as well) that can by no means be undertaken by 
rule of thumb. 

The converse of this is that the communications of the unconscious 
are of the highest importance to the dreamer — naturally so, since the 
unconscious is at least half of his total being- and frequently offer him 
advice or guidance that could be obtained from no other source. Thus, 
when I described Jung’s dream about addressing the multitude, I was 
not describing a piece of magic or suggesting that Jung dabbled in 
fortune telling. I was recounting in the simple terms of daily experience 
how Jung was “advised” by his own unconscious to reconsider an 
inadequate judgment he had made with the conscious part of his mind. 

Now it follows from this that the dreaming of dreams is not a matter 
that the well-adjusted Jungian can regard as simply a matter of 
chance. On the contrary, the ability to establish communications with 
the unconscious is a part of the whole man, and Jungians “teach” 
themselves (I can think of no better term) to be receptive to dreams. 
When, therefore, Jung himself' was faced with the critical decision 
whether or not to write this book, he was able to draw on the resources 
of both his conscious and his unconscious in making up his mind. And 
all through this book you will find the dream treated as a direct, per- 
sonal, and meaningful communication to the dreamer — a communica- 
tion that uses the symbols common to ajl mankind, but that uses them 
on every occasion in an entirely individual way that can be interpreted 
only by an entirely individual “key.” 

The second point I wish to make is about a particular characteristic 
of argumentative method that is common to all the writers of this book 
- perhaps to all Jungians. Those who have limited themselves to living 
entirely in the world of the conscious and who reject communication 
with the unconscious bind themselves by the laws of conscious, formal 
life. With the infallible (but often meaningless) logic of the algebraic 
equation, they argue from assumed premises to incontestably deduced 

conclusions. Jung and his colleagues seem to me (whether they know it 
or not) to reject the limitations of this method of argument. It is not 
that they ignore logic, bu.t they appear all the time to be arguing to the 
unconscious as well as to the conscious. Their dialectical method is itself 
symbolic and often devious. They convince not by means of the nar- 
rowly focused spotlight of the syllogism, but by skirting, by repetition, 
by presenting a recurring view of the same subject seen each time from 
a slightly different angle — until suddenly the reader who has never 
been aware of a single, conclusive moment of proof finds that he has 
unknowingly embraced and taken into himself some wider truth. 

Jung’s arguments (and those of his colleagues) spiral upward over 
his subject like a bird circling a tree. At first, near the ground, it sees 
only a confusion of leaves and branches. Gradually, as it circles higher 
and higher, the recurring aspects of the tree form a wholeness and 
relate to their surroundings. Some readers may find this “spiraling” 
method of argument obscure or even confusing for a few pages— but 
not, I think, for long. It is characteristic of Jung’s method, and very 
soon the reader will find it carrying him with it on a persuasive and 
profoundly absorbing journey. 

The different sections of this book speak for themselves and require 
little introduction from me. Jung’s own chapter introduces the reader 
to the unconscious, to the archetypes and symbols that form its langu- 
age and to the dreams by which it communicates. Dr. Henderson in 
the following chapter illustrates the appearance of several archetypal 
patterns in ancient mythology, folk legend, and primitive ritual. Dr. 
von Franz, in the chapter entitled “The Process of Individuation,” 
describes the process by which the conscious and the unconscious 
within an individual learn to know, respect, and accommodate one 
another. In a certain sense this chapter contains not only the crux of 
the whole book, but perhaps the essence of Jung’s philosophy of life: 
Man becomes whole, integrated, calm, fertile, and happy when (and 
only when) the process of individuation is complete, when the con- 
scious and the unconscious have learned to live at peace and to com- 
plement one another. Mrs. Jaffe, like Dr. Henderson, is concerned 
with demonstrating, in the familiar fabric of the conscious, man’s 
recurring interest in — almost obsession with— the symbols of the un- 
conscious, They have for him a profoundly significant, almost a nour- 

ishing and sustaining, inner attraction — whether they occur in the 
myths and fairy tales that Dr. Henderson analyzes or in the visual arts, 
which, as Mrs. Jaffe shows, satisfy and delight us by a constant appeal 
to the unconscious. 

Finally, I must say a brief word about Dr. Jacobi's chapter, which 
is somewhat separate from the rest of the book. It is in fact an abbre- 
viated case history of one interesting and successful analysis. The value 
of such a chapter in a book like this is obvious ; but two words of warn- 
ing are nevertheless necessary. First, as Dr. von Franz points out, there 
is no such thing as a typical Jungian analysis. There can’t be, because 
every dream is a private and individual communication, and no two 
dreams use the symbols of the unconscious in the same way. So every 
Jungian analysis is unique — and it is misleading to consider this one, 
taken from Dr. Jacobi’s clinical files (or any other one there has ever 
been), as “representative” or “typical.” All one can say of the case of 
Henry and his sometimes lurid dreams is that they form one true 
example of the way in which the Jungian method may be applied to 
a particular case. Secondly, the full history of even a comparatively 
uncomplicated case would take a whole book to recount. Inevitably, the 
story of Henry’s analysis suffers a little in compression. The references, 
for instance, to the I Ching have been somewhat obscured and lent an 
unnatural (and to me unsatisfactory) flavor of the occult by being pre- 
sented out of their full context. Nevertheless, we concluded — and I am 
sure the reader will agree — that, with the warnings duly given, the 
clarity, to say nothing of the human interest, of Henry’s analysis 
greatly enriches this book. 

I began by describing how Jung came to write Man and his Symbols. 
I end by reminding the reader of what a remarkable — perhaps unique 
— publication this is. Carl Gustav Jung was one of the great doctors of 
all time and one of the great thinkers of this century. His object always 
was to help men and women to know themselves, so that by self-know- 
ledge and thoughtful self-use they could lead full, rich, and happy lives. 
At the very end of his own life, which was as full, rich, and happy as 
any I have encountered, he decided to use the strength that was 
left him to address his message to a wider public than he had ever 
tried to reach before. He completed his task and his life in the same 
month. This book is his legacy to the broad reading public. 


Parti Approaching the unconscious 18 

Carl G. Jung 

Part 2 Ancient myths and modern man 104 

Joseph L. Henderson 

Part 3 The process of individuation 158 

M.-L. von Franz 

Part 4 Symbolism in the visual arts 230 

Aniela Jaffe 

Part 5 Symbols in an individual analysis 272 

Jolande Jacobi 

Conclusion: Science and the unconscious 304 

M.-L. von Franz 

Notes 31 1 

Index 316 

Illustration credits 


1 Approaching the unconscious 

Carl G. Jung 

The entrance to the tomb of the Egyptian pharaoh Rameses III 

Approaching the unconscious 

The importance of dreams 

Man uses the spoken or written word to express 
the meaning of what he wants to convey. His 
language is full of symbols, but he also often 
employs signs or images that are not strictly 
descriptive. Some are mere abbreviations or 
strings of initials, such as UN, UNICEF, or 
UNESCO ; others are familiar trade marks, the 
names of patent medicines, badges, or insignia. 
Although these are meaningless in themselves, 
they have acquired a recognizable meaning 
through common usage or deliberate intent. 
Such things are not symbols. They are signs, 
and they do no more than denote the objects 
to which they are attached. 

What we call a symbol is a term, a name, or 
even a picture that may be familiar in daily 
life, yet that possesses specific connotations in 
addition to its conventional and obvious mean- 
ing. It implies something vague, unknown, or 
hidden from us. Many Cretan monuments, for 
instance, are marked with the design of the 

double adze. This is an object that we know, 
but we do not know its symbolic implications. 
For another example, take the case of the 
Indian who, after a visit to England, told his 
friends at home that the English worship ani- 
mals, because he had found eagles, lions, and 
oxen in old churches. He was not aware (nor 
are many Christians) that these animals are 
symbols of the Evangelists and are derived from 
the vision of Ezekiel, and that this in turn has 
an analogy to the Egyptian sun god Horus and 
his four sons. There are, moreover, such objects 
as the wheel and the cross that are known all 
over the world, yet that have a symbolic signi- 
ficance under certain conditions. Precisely what 
they symbolize is still a matter for controversial 

Thus a word or an image is symbolic when- it 
implies something more than its obvious and 
immediate meaning. It has a wider "uncon- 
scious” aspect that is never precisely defined or 

fully explained. Nor can one hope to define or 
explain it. As the mind explores the symbol, it 
is led to ideas that lie beyond the grasp of 
reason. The wheel may lead our thoughts to- 
ward the concept of a “divine” sun, but at this 
point reason must admit its incompetence; man 
is unable to define a “divine” being. When, 
with all our intellectual limitations, we call 
something “divine,” we have merely given it a 
name, which may be based on a creed, but 
never on factual evidence. 

Because there are innumerable things beyond 
the range of human understanding, we con- 
stantly use symbolic terms to represent concepts 
that we cannot define or fully comprehend. 
This is one reason why all religions employ sym- 
bolic language or images. But this conscious use 
of symbols is only one aspect of a psychological 
fact of great importance: Man also produces 
symbols unconsciously and spontaneously, in 
the form of dreams. 

It is not easy to grasp this point. But the 
point must be grasped if we are to know more 
about the ways in which the human mind 
works. Man, as we realize if we reflect for a 
moment, never perceives anything fully or com- 
prehendsanythingcompletely. Hecansee, hear, 
touch, and taste; but how far he sees, how well 
he hears, what his touch tells him, and what he 
tastes depend upon the number and quality of 
his senses. These limit his perception of the 
world around him. By using scientific instru- 
ments he can partly compensate for the defici- 
encies of his senses. For example, he can extend 
the range of his vision by binoculars or of his 
hearing by electrical amplification. But the most 
elaborate apparatus cannot do more than bring 
distant or small objects within range of his eyes, 
or make faint sounds more audible. No matter 
what instruments he uses, at some point he 
reaches the edge of certainty beyond which con- 
scious knowledge cannot pass. 

Left, three of the four Evangelists 
(in a relief on Chartres Cathedral) 
appear as animals: The lion is Mark, 
the ox Luke, the eagle John. Also 
animals are three of the sons of the 
Egyptian god Horus (above, c 1 250 
b c ). Animals, and groups of four, 
are universal religious symbols. 


In many societies, representations 
of the sun express man's indefinable 
religious experience. Above, a 
decoration on the back of a throne 
belonging to the 1 4th-century b.c. 
Egyptian pharaoh Tutankhamen is 
dominated by a sun disk; the hands 
at the end of the rays symbolize 
the sun’s life-giving power. Left, 
a monk in 20th-century Japan prays 
before a mirror that represents the 
divine Sun in the Shinto religion. 

Right, tungsten atoms seen with a 
microscope that magnifies 2,000,000 
times. Far right, the spots in center 
of picture are the farthest visible 
galaxies. No matter how far man 
extends his senses, limits to his 
conscious perception remain. 

There are, moreover, unconscious aspects of 
our perception of reality. The first is the fact 
that even when our senses react to real pheno- 
mena, sights, and sounds, they are somehow 
translated from the realm of reality into that 
of the mind. Within the mind they become 
psychic events, whose ultimate nature is un- 
knowable (for the psyche cannot know its own 
psychical substance). Thus every experience 
contains an indefinite number of unknown fac- 
tors, not to speak of the fact that every concrete 
object is always unknown in certain respects, 
because we cannot know the ultimate nature of 
matter itself. 

Then there are certain events of which we 
have not consciously taken note; they have re- 
mained, so to speak, below the threshold of con- 
sciousness. They have happened, but they have 
been absorbed subliminally, without our con- 
scious knowledge. We can become aware of 
such happenings only in a moment of intuition 
or by a process of profound thought that leads 
to a later realization that they must have hap- 
pened; and though we may have originally 
ignored their emotional and vital importance, it 
later wells up from the unconscious as a sort 
of afterthought. 

It may appear, for instance, in the form of a 
dream. As a general rule, the unconscious 
aspect of any event is revealed to us in dreams, 

where it appears not as a rational thought but 
as a symbolic image. As a matter of history, it 
was the study of dreams that first enabled 
psychologists to investigate the unconscious 
aspect of conscious psychic events. 

It is on such evidence that psychologists 
assume the existence of an unconscious psyche 

— though many scientists and philosophers deny 
its existence. They argue naively that such an 
assumption implies the existence of two “sub- 
jects,” or (to put it in a common phrase) two 
personalities within the same individual. But 
this is exactly what it does imply quite cor- 
rectly. And it is one of the curses of modern 
man that many people suffer from this divided 
personality. It is by no means a pathological 
symptom; it is a normal fact that can be ob- 
served at any time and everywhere. It is not 
merely the neurotic whose right hand does not 
know what the left hand is doing. This predica- 
ment is a symptom of a general unconsciousness 
that is the undeniable common inheritance of 
all mankind. 

Man has developed consciousness slowly and 
laboriously, in a process that took untold ages to 
reach the civilized state (which is arbitrarily 
dated from the invention of script in about 
4000 b.g. ) . And this evolution is far from com- 
plete, for large areas of the human mind are 
still shrouded in darkness. What we call the 
“psyche” is by no means identical with our 
consciousness and its contents. 

Whoever denies the existence of the uncon- 
scious is in fact assuming that our present know- 
ledge of the psyche is total. And this belief is 
clearly just as false as the assumption that we 
know all there is to be known about the natural 
universe. Our psyche is part of nature, and its 
enigma is as limitless. Thus we cannot define 
either the psyche or nature. We can merely 
state what we believe them to be and describe, 
as best we can, how they function. Quite apart, 
therefore, from the evidence that medical 
research has accumulated, there are strong 
grounds of logic for rejecting statements like 
“There is no unconscious.” Those who say such 
things merely express an age-old “misoneism” 

— a fear of the new and the unknown. 


There are historical reasons for this resistance 
to the idea of an unknown part of the human 
psyche. Consciousness is a very recent acquisi- 
tion of nature, and it is still in an “experimen- 
tal” state. It is frail, menaced by specific dan- 
gers, and easily injured. As anthropologists have 
noted, one of the most common mental de- 
rangements that occur among primitive people 
is what they call “the loss of a soul” — which 
means, as the name indicates, a noticeable dis- 
ruption (or, more technically, a dissociation) of 

Among such people, whose consciousness is 
at a different level of development from ours, 
the “soul” (or psyche) is not felt to be a unit. 
Many primitives assume that a man has a 
“bush soul” as well as his own, and that this 
bush soul is incarnate in a wild animal or a tree, 
with which the human individual has some kind 
of psychic identity. This is what the distin- 
guished French ethnologist Lucien Levy-Briihl 
called a “mystical participation.” He later re- 
tracted this term under pressure of adverse 
criticism, but I believe that his critics were 
wrong. It is a well-known psychological fact 

that an individual may have such an uncon- 
scious identity with some other person or object. 

This identity takes a variety of forms among 
primitives. If the bush soul is that of an animal, 
the animal itself is considered as some sort of 
brother to the man. A man whose brother is a 
crocodile, for instance, is supposed to be safe 
when swimming a crocodile-infested river. If 
the bush soul is a tree, the tree is presumed to 
have something like parental authority over the 
individual concerned. In both cases an injury 
to the bush soul is interpreted as an injury to 
the man. 

In some tribes, it is assumed that a man has 
a number of souls; this belief expresses the feel- 
ing of some primitive individuals that they each 
consist of several linked but distinct units. This 
means that the individual’s psyche is far from 
being safely synthesized; on the contrary, it 
threatens to fragment only too easily under the 
onslaught of unchecked emotions. 

While this situation is familiar to us from the 
studies of anthropologists, it is not so irrelevant 
to our own advanced civilization as it might 
seem. We too can become dissociated and lose 

"Dissociation" meansa splitting in 
the psyche, causing a neurosis. A 
famous fictional example of this 
state is Dr Jekyll and Mr. Hyde 
(1886) by the Scots author R. L. 
Stevenson. In the story Jekyll's 
"split” took the form of a physical 
change, rather than (as in reality) 
an inner, psychic state Left, Mr. 
Hyde (from the 1 932 film of the 
story) — Jekyll's "other half." 

Primitive people call dissociation 
"loss of a soul"; they believe that 
a man has a "bush soul” as well as 
his own Right, a Nyanga tribesman 
of west central Africa wearing a mask 
of the hornbill — the bird that he 
identifies with his bush soul. 

Far right, telephonists on a busy 
switchboard handle many calls at 
once. In such jobs people "split 
off" parts of their conscious minds 
to concentrate. But this split is 
controlled and temporary, not a 
spontaneous, abnormal dissociation 


our identity. We can be possessed and altered 
by moods, or become unreasonable and unable 
to recall important facts about ourselves or 
others, so that people ask: “What the devil has 
got into you?” We talk about being able “to 
control ourselves,” but self-control is a rare and 
remarkable virtue. We may think we have our- 
selves under control; yet a friend can easily tell 
us things about ourselves of which we have no 

Beyond doubt, even in what we call a high 
level of civilization, human consciousness has 
not yet achieved a reasonable degree of conti- 
nuity. It is still vulnerable and liable to frag- 
mentation. This capacity to isolate part of one's 
mind, indeed, is a valuable characteristic. It 
enables us to concentrate upon one thing at a 
time, excluding everything else that may claim 
our attention. But there is a world of difference 
between a conscious decision to split off and 
temporarily suppress a part of one's psyche, and 
a condition in which this happens spontane- 
ously, without one's knowledge or consent and 
even against one's intention. The former is a 
civilized achievement, the latter a primitive 

“loss of a soul,” or even the pathological cause 
of a neurosis. 

Thus, even in our day the unity of con- 
sciousness is still a doubtful affair; it can too 
easily be disrupted. An ability to control one’s 
emotions that may be very desirable from one 
point of view would be a questionable accom- 
plishment from another, for it would deprive 
social intercourse of varietv, color, and warmth. 

It is against this background that we must 
review the importance ofdreams those flimsy, 
evasive, unreliable, vague, and uncertain fan- 
tasies. To explain my point of view, I should 
like to describe how it developed over a period 
of years, and how I was led to conclude that 
dreams are the most frequent and universally 
accessible source for the investigation of man’s 
symbolizing faculty. 

Sigmund Freud was the pioneer who first 
tried to explore empirically the unconscious 
background of consciousness. He worked on the 
general assumption that dreams are not a matter 
of' chance but are associated with conscious 
thoughts and problems. This assumption was 
not in the least arbitrary. It was based upon the 


conclusion of eminent neurologists (for instance, 
Pierre Janet) that neurotic symptoms are re- 
lated to some conscious experience. They even 
appear to be split-off areas of the conscious 
mind, which, at another time and under differ- 
ent conditions, can be conscious. 

Before the beginning of this century, Freud 
and Josef Breuer had recognized that neurotic 
symptoms — hysteria, certain types of pain, and 
abnormal behavior — are in fact symbolically 
meaningful. They are one way in which the 
unconscious mind expresses itself, just as it 
may in dreams; and they are equally symbolic. 
A patient, for instance, who is confronted with 
an intolerable situation may develop a spasm 
whenever he tries to swallow: He “can't swal- 
low it.” Under similar conditions of psycholo- 
gical stress, another patient has an attack of 

asthma: He “can't breathe the atmosphere at 
home.” A third suffers from a peculiar para- 
lysis of the legs: He can't walk, i.e. “he can’t 
go on any more.” A fourth, who vomits when 
he eats, “cannot digest” some unpleasant fact. 
I could cite many examples of this kind, but 
such physical reactions are only one form in 
which the problems that trouble us unconsci- 
ously may express themselves. They more often 
find expression in our dreams. 

Any psychologist who has listened to num- 
bers of people describing their dreams knows 
that dream symbols have much greater variety 
than the physical symptoms of neurosis. They 
often consist of elaborate and picturesque fan- 
tasies. But if the analyst who is confronted by 
this dream material uses Freud’s original tech- 
nique of “free association,” he finds that dreams 



1 rvWf " 

% * 



l • • • •• . X. 

• 9 

1 Sigmund Freud (Vienna) 

2 Otto Rank (Vienna) 

3 Ludwig Binswanger (Kreuzlingen) 

4 A A Brill 

• ^ • • io # 

5 Max Eitingon (Berlin) 

6 James J. Putnam (Boston) 

7 Ernest Jones (Toronto) 

8 Wilhelm Stekel (Vienna) 


9 Eugen Bleuler (Zurich) 

10 Emma Jung (Kusnacht) 

11 Sandor Ferenczi (Budapest) 

12 C. G. Jung (Kusnacht) 

can eventually be reduced to certain basic pat- 
terns. This technique played an important part 
in the development of psychoanalysis, for it 
enabled Freud to use dreams as the starting 
point from which the unconscious problem of 
the patient might be explored. 

Freud made the simple but penetrating obser- 
vation that if a dreamer is encouraged to go on 
talking about his dream images and the thoughts 
that these prompt in his mind, he will give 
himself away and reveal the unconscious back- 
ground of his ailments, in both what he says 
and what he deliberately omits saying. His ideas 
may seem irrational and irrelevant, but after a 
time it becomes relatively easy to see what it is 
that he is trying to avoid, what unpleasant 
thought or experience he is suppressing. No 
matter how he tries to camouflage it, every- 
thing he says points to the core of his predica- 
ment. A doctor sees so many things from the 
seamy side of life that he is seldom far from the 
truth when he interprets the hints that his 
patient produces as signs of an uneasy con- 
science. What he eventually discovers, unfor- 
tunately, confirms his expectations. Thus far, 
nobody can say anything against Freud's theory 
of repression and wish fulfillment as apparent 
causes of dream symbolism. 

Freud attached particular importance to 
dreams as the point of departure for a process 

of 'Tree association.” But after a time I began to 
feel that this was a misleading and inadequate 
use of the rich fantasies that the unconscious 
produces in sleep. My doubts really began when 
a colleague told me of an experience he had 
during the course of a long train journey in 
Russia. Though he did not know the language 
and could not even decipher the Cyrillic script, 
he found himself musing over the strange letters 
in which the railway notices were written, and 
he fell into a reverie in which he imagined all 
sorts of meanings for them. 

One idea led to another, and in his relaxed 
mood he found that this “free association” had 
stirred up many old memories. Among them 
he was annoyed to find some long-buried dis- 
agreeable topics things he had wished to for- 
get and had forgotten consciously . He had in 
fact arrived at what psychologists would call 
his “complexes” — that is, repressed emotional 
themes that can cause constant psychological 
disturbances or even, in many cases, the symp- 
toms of neurosis. 

This episode opened my eyes to the fact that 
it was not necessary to use a dream as the point 
ofdeparture for the process of “free association” 
if one wished to discover the complexes of a 
patient. It showed me that one can reach the 
center directly from any point of the compass. 
One could begin from Cyrillic letters, from 

Left, many of the great pioneers of 
modern psychoanalysis, photo- 
graphed at a Congress of 
Psychoanalysis in 1 91 1 at Weimar, 
Germany. The key, below left, 
identifies some of the major figures. 

Right, the ' inkblot'' test devised 
by the Swiss psychiatrist Hermann 
Rorschach. The shape of the blot 
can serve as a stimulus for free 
association; in fact, almost any 
irregular free shape can spark off 
the associative process. Leonardo 
da Vinci wrote in his Notebooks: 
"It should not be hard for you to 
stop sometimes and look into the 
stains of walls, or ashes of a fire, 
or clouds, or mud or like places, 
in which . . . you may find really 
marvelous ideas." 

meditations upon a crystal ball, a prayer wheel, 
or a modern painting, or even from casual con- 
versation about some quite trivial event. The 
dream was no more and no less useful in this 
respect than any other possible starting point. 
Nevertheless, dreams have a particular signifi- 
cance, even though they often arise from an 
emotional upset in which the habitual complexes 
are also involved. (The habitual complexes are 
the tender spots of the psyche, which react most 
quickly to an external stimulus or disturbance.) 
That is why free association can lead one from 
any dream to the critical secret thoughts. 

At this point, however, it occurred to me that 
(if 1 was right so far) it might reasonably follow 
that dreams have some special and more signi- 
ficant function of their own. Very often dreams 
have a definite, evidently purposeful structure, 
indicating an underlying idea or intention 
though, as a rule, the latter is not immediately 
comprehensible. I therefore began to consider 
whether one should pay more attention to the 
actual form and content of a dream, rather than 
allowing ‘“free' 1 association to lead one off 
through a train of ideas to complexes that could 
as easily be reached by other means. 

This new thought was a turning point in the 
development of my psychology. It meant that I 
gradually gave up following associations that 
led far away from the text of a dream. I chose 
to concentrate rather on the associations to the 
dream itself, believing that the latter expressed 
something specific that the unconscious was 
trying to say. 

The change in my attitude toward dreams 
involved a change of method; the* new tech- 

Two different possible stimuli of 
free association: the whirling 
prayer wheel of a Tibetan beggar 
(left), or a fortune teller’s crystal 
ball (right, a modern crystal gazer 
at a British fair). 

nique was one that could take account of all 
the various wider aspects of a dream. A story 
told by the conscious mind has a beginning, a 
development, and an end, but the same is not 
true of' a dream. Its dimensions in time and 
space are quite different; to understand it you 
must examine it from every aspect —just as you 
may take an unknown object in your hands and 
turn it over and over until you are familiar 
with every detail of its shape. 

Perhaps I have now said enough to show how 
1 came increasingly to disagree with “free” 
association as Freud first employed it: I wanted 
to keep as close as possible to the dream itself, 
and to exclude all the irrelevant ideas and asso- 
ciations that it might evoke. True, these could 
lead one toward the complexes of a patient, 
but I had a more far-reaching purpose in mind 
than the discovery of complexes that cause 
neurotic disturbances. There are many other 
means by which these can be identified: The 
psychologist, for instance, can get all the hints 
he needs by using word-association tests (by ask- 
ing the patient what he associates to a given 
set of words, and by studying his responses). 
But to know and understand the psychic life- 

process of an individual's whole personality, it 
is important to realize that his dreams and their 
symbolic images have a much more important 
role to play. 

Almost everyone knows, for example, that 
there is an enormous variety of images by which 
the sexual act can be symbolized for, one might 
say, represented in the form of an allegory). 
Each of these images can lead, by a process of 
association, to the idea of sexual intercourse and 
to specific complexes that any individual may 
have about his own sexual attitudes. But one 
could just as well unearth such complexes by 
day-dreaming on a set ofindecipherable Russian 
letters. I was thus led to the assumption that a 
dream can contain some message other than the 
sexual allegory, and that it does so for definite 
reasons. To illustrate this point: 

A man may dream of inserting a key in a 
lock, of wielding a heavy stick, or of breaking 
down a door with a battering ram. Each of 
these can be regarded as a sexual allegory. But 
the fact that his unconscious for its own pur- 
poses has chosen one of these specific images 
it may be the key, the stick, or the battering 
ram is also of major significance. The real 
task is to understand why the key has been 
preferred to the stick, or the stick to the ram. 
And sometimes this might even lead one to dis- 
cover that it is not the sexual act at all that is 
represented, but some quite different psycholo- 
gical point. 

From this line of reasoning, I concluded that 
only the material that is clearly and visibly part 
of a dream should be used in interpreting it. 
The dream has its own limitation. Its specific 

One of the countless symbolic or 
allegorical images of the sexual 
act is a deer hunt: Right, a detail 
from a painting by the 1 6 th-century 
German artist Cranach The sexual 
implication of the deer hunt is 
underlined by a medieval English 
folk song called "The Keeper" : 

The first doe that he shot at he 

And the second doe he trimmed he 

And the third ran away in a young 
man s heart, 

She's amongst the leaves of the 
green 0. 

form itself tells us what belongs to it and what 
leads away from it. While “free" association 
lures one away from that material in a kind of 
zigzag line, the method I evolved is more like a 
circumambulation whose center is the dream 
picture. I work all around the dream picture 
and disregard every attempt that the dreamer 
makes to break away from it. Time and time 
again, in my professional work, I have had to 
repeat the words: “Let's get back to your 
dream. What does the dream say?" 

For instance, a patient of' mine dreamed of 
a drunken and disheveled vulgar woman. In 
the dream, it seemed that this woman was his 
wife, though in real life his wife was totally 
difl'erent. On the surface, therefore, the dream 
was shockingly untrue, and the patient imme- 
diately rejected it as dream nonsense. If I, as his 
doctor, had let him start a process of associa- 
tion, he would inevitably have tried to get as far 
away as possible from the unpleasant suggestion 
of his dream. In that case, he would have ended 
with one of* his staple complexes a complex, 
possibly, that had nothing to do with his wife 
and we should have learned nothing about the 
spec ial meaning of* this partic ular dream. 

A key in a lock may be a sexual 
symbol — but not invariably. Left, 
a section of an altarpiece by the 
15th-century Flemish artist Campm. 
The door was intended to symbolize 
hope, the lock to symbolize charity, 
and the key to symbolize the desire 
for God. Below, a British bishop 
during the consecration of a church 
carries out a traditional ceremony 
by knocking on the church door with 
a staff — which is obviously not a 
phallic symbol but a symbol of 
authority and the shepherd's crook. 
No individual symbolic image can be 
said to have a dogmatically fixed, 
generalized meaning. 

The "amma" is the female element 
in the male unconscious. (It and the 
"animus" in the female unconscious 
are discussed in Chapter 3.) This 
inner duality is often symbolized 
by a hermaphroditic figure, like 
the crowned hermaphrodite, above 
right, from a 1 7th-century alchemical 
manuscript. Right, a physical image 
of man's psychic "bisexuality": a 
human cell with its chromosomes. 

All organisms have two sets of 
chromosomes — one from each parent 


What, then, was his unconscious trying to 
convey by such an obviously untrue statement? 
Clearly, it somehow expressed the idea of a 
degenerate female who was closely connected 
with the dreamer’s life; but since the projection 
of this image on to his wife was unjustified and 
factually untrue, I had to look elsewhere 
before I found out what this repulsive image 

In the Middle Ages, long before the physio- 
logists demonstrated that by reason of our 
glandular structure there are both male and 

female elements in all of us, it was said that 
‘'every man carries a woman within himself.’' 
It is this female element in every male that I 
have called the “anima.” This “feminine” 
aspect is essentially a certain inferior kind of 
rclatedness to the surroundings, and particu- 
larly to women, which is kept carefully con- 
cealed from others as well as from oneself. 
In other words, though an individual’s visible 
personality may seem quite normal, he may 
well be concealing from others — or even from 
himself— the deplorable condition of “the 
woman within.” 

That was the case with this particular 
patient: His female side was not nice. His 
dream was actually saying to him : “You are in 
some respects behaving like a degenerate 
female,” and thus gave him an appropriate 
shock. (An example of this kind, of course, must 
not be taken as evidence that the unconscious 
is concerned with “moral” injunctions. The 
dream was not telling the patient to “behave 
better,” but was simply trying to balance the 
lopsided nature of his conscious mind, which 
was maintaining the fiction that he was a 
perfect gentleman throughout.) 

It is easy to understand why dreamers tend 
to ignore and even deny the message of their 
dreams. Consciousness naturally resists any- 
thing unconscious and unknown. I have already 
pointed out the existence among primitive 
peoples of what anthropologists call “miso- 
neism,” a deep and superstitious fear of novelty. 
The primitives manifest all the reactions of the 
wild animal against untoward events. But 
“civilized” man reacts to new ideas in much 
the same way, erecting psychological barriers to 
protect himself from the shock of facing some- 
thing new. This can easily be observed in any 
individual's reaction to his own dreams when 
obliged to admit a surprising thought. Many 
pioneers in philosophy, science, and even litera- 
ture have been victims of the innate conserv- 
atism of their contemporaries. Psychology is 
one of the youngest of the sciences; because it 
attempts to deal with the working of the uncon- 
scious, it has inevitably encountered misoneism 
in an extreme form. 

3 ^ 

Past and future in the unconscious 

So far, I have been sketching some of the prin- 
ciples on which I approached the problem of 
dreams, for when we want to investigate man's 
faculty to produce symbols, dreams prove to be 
the most basic and accessible material for this 
purpose. The two fundamental points in deal- 
ing with dreams are these: First, the dream 
should be treated as a fact, about which one 
must make no previous assumption except that 
it somehow makes sense ; and second, the dream 
is a specific expression of the unconscious. 

One could scarcely put these principles more 
modestly. No matter how low anyone's opinion 
of the unconscious may be, he must concede 
that it is worth investigating; the unconscious 
is at least on a level with the louse, which, after 
all, enjoys the honest interest of the entomolo- 
gist. If somebody with little experience and 
knowledge of dreams thinks that dreams are 
just chaotic occurrences without meaning, he 
is at liberty to do so. But if one assumes that 
they are normal events (which, as a matter of 
fact, they are), one is bound to consider that 
they are either causal i.e. that there is a 
rational cause for their existence or in a cer- 
tain way purposive, or both. 

Let us now look a little more closely at the 
ways in which the conscious and unconscious 

contents of the mind are linked together. Take 
an example with which everyone is familiar. 
Suddenly you find you cannot remember what 
you were going to say next, though a moment 
ago the thought was perfectly clear. Or perhaps 
you were about to introduce a friend, and his 
name escaped you as you were about to utter it. 
You say you cannot remember; in fact, though, 
the thought has become unconscious, or at 
least momentarily separated from conscious- 
ness. We find the same phenomenon with our 
senses. ir we listen to a continuous note on the 
fringe of audibility, the sound seems to stop 
at regular intervals and then start again. Such 
oscillations are due to a periodic decrease and 
increase in one's attention, not to any change 
in the note. 

But when something slips out of our con- 
sciousness it does not cease to exist, any more 
than a car that has disappeared round a corner 
has vanished into thin air. It is simply out of 
sight. Just as we may later see the car again, 
so we come across thoughts that were tem- 
porarily lost to us. 

Thus, part of the unconscious consists ol a 
multitude of temporarily obscured thoughts, 
impressions, and images that, in spite of being 
lost, continue to influence our conscious minds. 

A man who is distracted or “absent-minded" 
will walk across the room to letch something. 
He stops, seemingly perplexed ; he has forgotten 
what he was after. His hands grope about 
among the objects on the table as if he were 
sleepwalking; he is oblivious of his original 
purpose, yet he is unconsciously guided by it. 
Then he realizes what it is that he wants. His 
unconscious has prompted him. 

If you observe the behavior of a neurotic 
person, you can see him doing many things 
that he appears to be doing consciously and 
purposefully. Yet if you ask him about them, 
you will discover that he is either unconscious 
of them or has something quite different in 
mind. He hears and does not hear; he sees, 
yet is blind; he knows and is ignorant. Such 
examples are so common that the specialist soon 
realizes that unconscious contents of the mind 
behave as if they were conscious and that you 
can never be sure, in such cases, whether 
thought, speech, or action is conscious or not. 

It is this kind of behavior that makes so 
many physicians dismiss statements by hysteri- 
cal patients as utter lies. Such persons certainly 
produce more untruths than most of us. but 
“lie'' is scarcely the right word to use. In fact, 
their mental state causes an uncertainty of 

behavior because their consciousness is liable 
to unpredictable eclipse by an interference from 
the unconscious. Even their skin sensations may 
reveal similar fluctuations of awareness. At one 
moment the hysterical person may feel a needle 
prick in the arm; at the next it may pass unno- 
ticed. If his attention can be focused on a cer- 
tain point, the whole of his body can be 
completely anesthetized until the tension that 
causes this blackout of the senses has been re- 
laxed. Sense perception is then immediately 
restored. All the time, however, he has been 
unconsciously aware of what was happening. 

The physician can see this process quite 
clearly when he hypnotizes such a patient. It 
is easy to demonstrate that the patient has been 
aware of every detail. The prick in the arm or 
the remark made during an eclipse of con- 
sciousness can be recalled as accurately as if 
there had been no anesthesia or ‘'forgetful ness." 

I recall a woman who w as once admitted to the 
clinic in a state of complete stupor. When she 
recovered consciousness next day, she knew w ho 
she was but did not know where she was, how 
or why she had come there, or even the date. 
Yet alter I had hypnotized her. she told me why 
she had fallen ill. how she had got to the clinic, 
and who had admitted her. All these details 

"Misoneism, " an unreasoning fear 
and hatred of new ideas, was a major 
block to public acceptance of modern 
psychology It also opposed Darwin s 
theories of evolution — as when an 
American schoolteacher named 
Scopes was tried in 1 925 for teaching 
evolution Far left, at the trial, the 
lawyer Clarence Darrow defending 
Scopes; center left, Scopes himself. 
Equally anti- Darwin is the cartoon, 
left, from an 1 861 issue of Britain's 
magazine Punch Right, a light- 
hearted look at misoneism by the 
American humorist James Thurber, 
whose aunt (he wrote) was afraid 
that electricity was "leaking all 
over the place." 




could he verified. She was even able to ted 1 the 
time at which she had hern admitted, because 
she had seen a clock in the entrance hall. Under 
hypnosis, her memory was as clear as if she 
had been completely conscious all the time. 

When we discuss such matters, we usually 
have to draw on evidence supplied by clinical 
observation. For this reason, many critics 
assume that the unconscious and all its subtle 
manifestations belong solely to the sphere of 
psychopathology. They consider any expression 
of the unconscious as something neurotic or 
psychotic, which has nothing to do with a nor- 
mal mental state. But neurotic phenomena are 
by no means the products exclusively ol disease. 
They are in fact no more than pathological 
exaggerations of normal occurrences; it is only 
because they are exaggerations that they an* 
more obvious than their normal counterparts. 
Hysterical symptoms can be observed in all 
normal persons, but they are so slight that they 
usually pass unnoticed. 

Forgetting, for instance, is a normal process, 
in which certain conscious ideas lose their speci- 
fic energy because one’s attention has been 
deflected. When interest turns elsewhere, it 
leaves in shadow the things with which one was 
previously concerned, just as a searchlight lights 
u]) a new area by leaving another in dark- 
ness. This is unavoidable, for consciousness c an 
keep only a lew images in full clarity at one 
time, and even this c larity fluc tuates. 

But the forgotten ideas have not ceased to 
exist. Although they cannot be reproduced at 
will, they are present in a subliminal state just 
beyond the threshold of recall from which 
they can rise 4 again spontaneously at any time, 
often after many years of apparently total 

I am speaking here of things we have con- 
sciously seen or heard, and subsequently forgot- 
ten. But we all see, hear, smell, and taste many 
things without noticing them at the time, either 
because our attention is deflected or because 
the stimulus to our senses is too slight to leave 
a consc ious impression. The unconscious, how- 
ever, has take'n note of them, and sue h sublimi- 
nal sense perceptions play a significant part in 
our everyday fixes. Without our realizing it, 
they influence* the way in which we react to 
both events and people. 

An example of this that 1 found particularly 
revealing was provided by a professor who had 
been walking in the country with one of his 
pupils, absorbed in serious conversation. Sud- 
denly he noticed that his thoughts were being 
interrupted by an unexpected flow of memories 
from his early childhood. He could not account 
for this distraction. Nothing in what had been 
said seemed to have any connection with these 
memories. On looking back, he* saw that he had 
bet'll walking past a farm when the* first of these 
childhood recollections had surged up in his 
mind. He* suggested to his pupil that tlicx 

In cases of extreme mass hysteria 
(which was in the past called 
"possession”), the conscious mind 
and ordinary sense perception seem 
eclipsed. Left, the frenzy of a Balinese 
sword dance causes the dancers to 
fall into trances and, sometimes, 
to turn their weapons against 
themselves. Right, rock and roll 
music in its heyday seemed to 
induce an almost comparable 
trance-like excitement. 

should walk back to the point where the fan- 
tasies had begun. Once there, he noticed the 
smell of geese, and instantly he realized that it 
was this smell that had touched ofF the flow of 

In his youth he had lived on a farm where 
geese were kept, and their characteristic smell 
had left a lasting though forgotten impression. 
As he passed the farm on his walk, he had 
noticed the smell subliminally, and this uncon- 
scious perception had called back long-forgot- 
ten experiences of his childhood. The perception 
was subliminal, because the attention was en- 
gaged elsewhere, and the stimulus was not 
strong enough to deflect it and to reach con- 
sciousness directly. Yet it had brought up the 
“forgotten" memories. 

Such a “cue" or “trigger" effect can explain 
the onset of neurotic symptoms as well as more 
benign memories when a sight, smell, or sound 
recalls a circumstance in the past. A girl, for 
instance, may be busy in her office, apparently 
in good health and spirits. A moment later she 
develops a blinding headache and shows other 
signs of distress. Without consciously noticing 

it, she has heard the foghorn of a distant ship, 
and this has unconsciously reminded her of an 
unhappy parting with a lover whom she has 
been doing her best to forget. 

Aside from normal forgetting, Freud has 
described several cases that involve the “for- 
getting" of disagreeable memories — memories 
that one is only too ready to lose. As Nietzsche 
remarked, where pride is insistent enough, 
memory prefers to give way. Thus, among the 
lost memories, we encounter not a few that owe 
their subliminal state (and their incapacity to 
be voluntarily reproduced) to their disagreeable 
and incompatible nature. The psychologist calls 
these repressed contents. 

A case in point might be that of a secretary 
who is jealous of' one of her employer’s associ- 
ates. She habitually forgets to invite this person 
to meetings, though the name is clearly marked 
on the list she is using. But, if challenged on the 
point, she simply says she “forgot" or was 
“interrupted." She never admits not even to 
herself' the real reason for her omission. 

Many people mistakenly overestimate^ the 
role of willpower and think that nothing can 

The toy cars forming the Volkswagen 
trade-mark in this advertisement 
may have a "trigger " effect on a 
reader's mind, stirring unconscious 
memories of childhood. If these 
memories are pleasant, the pleasure 
may be associated (unconsciously) 
with the product and brand name. 


happen to their minds that they do not decide 
and intend. But one must learn to discriminate 
carefully between intentional and unintentional 
contents of the mind. The former are derived 
from the ego personality; the latter, however, 
arise from a source that is not identical with the 
ego, but is its “other side.” It is this “other side” 
that would have made the secretary forget the 

There are many reasons why we forget things 
that we have noticed or experienced ; and there 
are just as many ways in which they may be 
recalled to mind. An interesting example is that 
of cryptomnesia, or “concealed recollection.” 
An author may be writing steadily to a precon- 
ceived plan, working out an argument or de- 
veloping the line of a story, when he suddenly 
runs off at a tangent. Perhaps a fresh idea has 
occurred to him, or a different image, or a 
whole new sub-plot. If you ask him what 
prompted the digression, he will not be able to 
tell you. He may not even have noticed the 
change, though he has now produced material 
that is entirely fresh and apparently unknown 
to him before. Yet it can sometimes be shown 
convincingly that what he has written bears a 
striking similarity to the work of another author 
—a work that he believes he has never seen. 

I myself found a fascinating example of this 
in Nietzsche’s book Thus Spake Z arathustra , 
where the author reproduces almost word for 
word an incident reported in a ship’s log for 
the year 1686. By sheer chance I had read this 
seaman’s yarn in a book published about 1835 
(half a century before Nietzsche wrote); and 
when I found the similar passage in Thus Spake 
Z arathustra , I was struck by its peculiar style, 
which was different from Nietzsche’s usual 
language. I was convinced that Nietzsche must 
also have seen the old book, though he made 
no reference to it. I wrote to his sister, who was 
still alive, and she confirmed that she and her 
brother had in fact read the book together 
when he was 1 1 years old. I think, from the 
context, it is inconceivable that Nietzsche had 
any idea that he was plagiarizing this story. I 
believe that fifty years later it had unexpectedly 
slipped into focus in his conscious mind. 

In this type of case there is genuine, if unre- 
alized, recollection. Much the same sort of thing 
may happen to a musician who has heard a 
peasant tune or popular song in childhood and 
finds it cropping up as the theme of a sym- 
phonic movement that he is composing in adult 
life. An idea or an image has moved back from 
the unconscious into the conscious mind. 

What I have so far said about the uncon- 
scious is no more than a cursory sketch of the 
nature and functioning of this complex part of 
the human psyche. But it should have indicated 
the kind of subliminal material from which the 
symbols of our dreams may be spontaneously 
produced. This subliminal material can consist 
of all urges, impulses, and intentions: all per- 
ceptions and intuitions; all rational or irrational 
thoughts, conclusions, inductions, deductions, 
and premises; and all varieties of feeling. Any 
or all of these can take the form of partial, 
temporary, or constant unconsciousness. 

Such material has mostly become uncon- 
scious because— in a manner of speaking — 
there is no room for it in the conscious mind. 
Some of one’s thoughts lose their emotional 
energy and become subliminal (that is to say, 
they no longer receive so much of our conscious 
attention) because they have come to seem un- 
interesting or irrelevant, or because there is 
some reason why we wish to push them out of 

It is, in fact, normal and necessary for us to 
“forget” in this fashion, in order to make room 
in our conscious minds for new impressions and 
ideas. If this did not happen, everything we 
experienced would remain above the threshold 
of consciousness and our minds would become 
impossibly cluttered. This phenomenon is so 
widely recognized today that most people who 
know anything about psychology take it for 

But just as conscious contents can vanish 
into the unconscious, new contents, which have 
never yet been conscious, can arise from it. 
One may have an inkling, for instance, that 
something is on the point of breaking into con- 
sciousness — that “something is in the air,” or 
that one “smells a rat.” The discovery that the 


unconscious is no mere depository of’ the past, 
but is also lull of germs of future psychic situa- 
tions and ideas, led me to my own new 
approach to psychology. A great deal ol contro- 
versial discussion has arisen around this point. 
But it is a fact that, in addition to memories 
from a long-distant conscious past, completely 
new thoughts and creative ideas can also pre- 
sent themselves from the unconscious thoughts 
and ideas that have never been conscious before'. 
’They grow up from the dark depths of the 
mind like a lotus and form a most important 
part ol the subliminal psyche. 

We find this in everyday life, where dilemmas 
are sometimes solved by tin* most surprising new 
propositions; many artists, philosophers, and 
even scientists owe some* of their best ideas to 
inspirations that appear suddenly from the 
unconscious. The ability to reach a rich vein 
of such material and to translate it effectively 
into philosophv, literature, music', or sc ientific 
discovery is one* of the hallmarks of what is 
commonly called genius. 

We can find clear proof of this fact in the 
history ofscience itself'. For example, the French 

mathematician Poincare and the chemist 
Kekule owed important scientific discoveries fas 
they themselves admit « to sudden pictorial “re- 
velations” from the* unconscious. The so-called 
“mystical” experienceofthe French philosopher 
Descartes involved a similar sudden revelation 
in which he' saw in a flash the “o of all 
sciences.” 'Flic British author Robert Louis 
Stevenson had spent years looking for a story 
that would fit his “strong sense of man's double 
being,” when the plot of Dr. Jelyll and Mr. 
Hyde was sudde nly revealed to him in a dre am. 

Late r I shall describe in more* detail how such 
material arises from the* unconscious, and I shall 
examine the form in whic h it is expressed. At 
the* moment I simply want to point out that the 
c apacity of the human psyche to produce suc h 
new material is partic ularly significant when 
one* is dealing with dream symbolism, for I 
have found again and again in my professional 
work that the image's and ideas that dreams 
contain cannot possiblv In* explained solely in 
terms of memorv. They e xpress new thoughts 
that have' newer yet reached the threshold ol 

)t£ 4roMlMflw *ab»«aai— 

i«hlon«D( Kelt* (waaa sjmmrtn*>k+n Rib*), die boHj aceb* IWm 
V rrw Bsdu ebaftoiaheitea ^aibAli 


geaobloMtae Kett* 

Wbbb Aatiehl Ob«r die Coaatitatioa der aua aeeha Kohlenatoiala- 
nea bealebeadee, ge^ehlosaeaea KeUe wird rielleiehl aoch dentliefcar 
witdergegtbea dureh folgeede graphiaeh* Foraiel, ia weleber die Koblea 
•loffafoate raad aad die eier VerwaodUehafteeiebeitea jedee Au>»«* 
dareb *ier voa ibn aaalaufeade Liaiea dargeeteilt aiad: 

nffeae Kette. 

© <■) 

▼oa dieaer geaebloeaeaea Kette leitea aieb oun, vie gieieb 
auafohrlieher geteigt werdea wird, alle die Verhindangen ab , die aiaa 
gewobnlieh ala arootalieche Subataaarn beseiehaet f>ie offeae Ketle 
eielleiebl iai ChiaoD, ini Chloranil uad deo weaigea Korpera aata- 
Behiaea. die u beiden ia nlberer Betirhung atehen. Aueb dieae Korper 
kOooen iadeaa auf die geaehloaaeoe Ketle bexogen aad von ibr abgeleitel 
warden, wie die* apAler anch emrtert werdea anil. 

11M In alien aromnliaehen Verbiadungen kann alan, alt gemeiaaebaft- 

lieber Kera, eiae ana aeeba Kohlenaloffatomea beatebeade. geaebloaaeae 
Ke<le angenommen werden, die noeh aeeba freie Verwandtaebaflaeiabei 
lea besiltl. Man konnle aie doreb die Kormel : 0 # A, aaadhleben . ia 
weleber A eiae aieht geeAtligte Afflnii*) aider VerwandlaehaAaeinbeii be- 

The 1 9th-century German chemist 
Kekule, researching into the 
molecular structure of benzene, 
dreamed of a snake with its tail 
in its mouth. (This is an age-old 
symbol: left, a representation of 
it from a third century b.c Greek 
manuscript.) He interpreted the 
dream to mean that the structure 
was a closed carbon ring as on the 
page, far left, from his Textbook 
of Organic Chemistry ( 1 861 ) . 

Right, an ordinary European highway 
with a familiar sign that means 
"look out for animals crossing " 

But the motorists (their shadows 
appear in the foreground as they 
leave their car) see an elephant, a 
rhinoceros, even a dinosaur. This 
painting of a dream (by the modern 
Swiss artist Erhard Jacoby) 
accurately depicts the apparently 
illogical, incoherent nature of 
dream imagery. 


The function of dreams 

I have gone into some detail about the origins 
of our dream life, because it is the soil from 
which most symbols originally grow. Unfor- 
tunately, dreams are difficult to understand. As 
I have already pointed out, a dream is quite 
unlike a story told by the conscious mind. In 
everyday life one thinks out what one wants to 
say, selects the most telling way of saying it, and 
tries to make one's remarks logically coherent. 
For instance, an educated person will seek to 
avoid a mixed metaphor because it may give a 
muddled impression of his point. But dreams 
have a different texture. Images that seem con- 
tradictory and ridiculous crowd in on the 
dreamer, the normal sense of time is lost, and 
commonplace things can assume a fascinating 
or threatening aspect. 

It may seem strange that the unconscious 
mind should order its material so differently 
from the seemingly disciplined pattern that we 

can impose on our thoughts in waking life. Yet 
anyone who stops for a moment to recall a 
dream will be aware of this contrast, which is 
in fact one of the main reasons why the ordinary 
person finds dreams so hard to understand. 
They do not make sense in terms of his normal 
waking experience, and therefore he is inclined 
either to disregard them or to confess that they 
baffle him. 

Perhaps it may be easier to understand this 
point if we first realize the fact that the ideas 
with which we deal in our apparently disci- 
plined waking life are by no means as precise 
as we like to believe. On the contrary, their 
meaning (and their emotional significance for 
us) becomes more imprecise the more closely 
we examine them. The reason for this is that 
anything we have heard or experienced can 
become subliminal that is to say, can pass into 
the unconscious. And even what we retain in 


our conscious mind and can reproduce at will 
has acquired an unconscious undertone that 
will color the idea each time it is recalled. Our 
conscious impressions, in fact, quickly assume 
an element of unconscious meaning that is 
psychically significant for us, though we are not 
consciously aware of the existence of this sub- 
liminal meaning or of the way in which it both 
extends and confuses the conventional meaning. 

Of course, such psychic undertones differ 
from one person to another. Each of us receives 
any abstract or general notion in the context of 
the individual mind, and we therefore under- 
stand and apply it in our individual ways. 
When, in conversation, I use any such terms as 
‘‘state,” “money,” “health,” or “society,” I 
assume that my listeners understand more or 
less the same thing as I do. But the phrase “more 
or less” makes my point. Each word means 
something slightly different to each person, even 
among those who share the same cultural back- 
ground. The reason for this variation is that a 
general notion is received into an individual 
context and is therefore understood and applied 
in a slightly individual way. And the difference 
of meaning is naturally greatest when people 
have widely different social, political, religious 
or psychological experiences. 

As long as concepts are identical with mere 
words, the variation is almost imperceptible and 
plays no practical role. But when an exact defi- 
nition or a careful explanation is needed, one 
can occasionally discover the most amazing 
variations, not only in the purely intellectual 
understanding of the term, but particularly in 
its emotional tone and its application. As a rule, 
these variations are subliminal and therefore 
never realized. v 

One may tend to dismiss such differences as 
redundant or expendable nuances of meaning 
that have little relevance to everyday needs. But 
the fact that they exist shows that even the most 
matter-of-fact contents of consciousness have a 
penumbra of uncertainty around them. Even 
the most carefully defined philosophical or 
mathematical concept, which we are sure does 
not contain more than we have put into it, is 
nevertheless more than we assume. It is a 

psychic event and as such partly unknowable. 
The very numbers you use in counting are more 
than you take them to be. They are at the same 
time mythological elements (for the Pytha- 
goreans, they were even divine) ; but you are 
certainly unaware of this when you use numbers 
lor a practical purpose. 

Every concept in our conscious mind, in 
short, has its own psychic associations. While 
such associations may vary in intensity (accord- 
ing to the relative importance of the concept to 
our whole personality, or according to the other 
ideas and even complexes to which it is asso- 
ciated in our unconscious), they are capable of 



Le temps n'a point de rive. 1 930-39. Oil on canvas, 39 §" x 32". Collection „ The Museum of Modern Art New York 

On these pages, further examples 
of the irrational, fantastic nature 
of dreams. Above left, owls and 
bats swarm over a dreaming man 
in an etching by the 1 8th-century 
Spanish artist Goya. 

Dragons or similar monsters are 
common dream images. Left, a dragon, 
pursues a dreamer in a woodcut 
from The Dream of Poiiphilo, a 
fantasy written by a 1 5th -century 
Italian monk, Francesco Colonna. 

Above, a painting entitled Time is 
a River without Banks by the modern 
artist Marc Chagall. The unexpected 
association of these images— fish, 
violin, clock, lovers — has all the 
strangeness of a dream 


The mythological aspect of ordinary 
numbers appears in Mayan reliefs 
(top of page, c a.d. 730), which 
personify numerical divisions of 
time as gods. The pyramid of dots, 
above, represents the tetraktys of 
Greek Pythagorean philosophy (sixth 
century B c ). It includes four numbers 
1 , 2. 3, 4 making a total of 1 0. 
Both four and 1 0 were worshiped 
as divinities by the Pythagoreans. 


changing the “normal'' character o! that con- 
cept. It may even become something quite 
different as it drills below the level of con- 

These subliminal aspects of everything that 
happens to us may seem to play very little part 
in our daily lives. But in dream analysis, when* 
the psychologist is dealing with expressions of 
the unconscious, they are very releva ill. for they 
are the almost invisible roots of our const ions 
thoughts. That is why commonplace objects or 
ideas can assume such powerful psychic signifi- 
cance in a dream that we may awake seriously 
disturbed, in spite of having dreamed ofnothing 
worst* than a locked room or a missed train. 

The images produced in dreams are much 
more picturesque and vivid than the concepts 
and experiences that are their waking counter- 
parts. Out* of the reasons for this is that, in a 
dream, such concepts can express their uncon- 
scious meaning. In our conscious thoughts, we 
restrain ourselves within the limits ol rational 
st at erne'll ts statements that arc much less color- 
ful because we have* stripped them of most of 
their psychic assoc iations. 

I recall one dream of my own that I found 
cli flii'ii 1 1 to interpret. In this dream, a certain 
man was trying to get be hind me and jump on 
my back. I knew nothing of this man except 
that I was aware that he had somehow picked 
up a remark I had made and had twisted it into 
a grotesque travesty of my meaning. But 1 

could not see the connection between this fact 
and his attempt in the dream to jump on me. 
In my professional life, however, it has often 
happened that someone has misrepresented 
what I have said so often that I have scarcely 
bothered to wonder whether this kind of mis- 
representation makes me angry. Now there is a 
certain value* in keeping a conscious control 
over one's emotional reactions ; and this. I soon 
realized, was the* point the* dream had made. It 
had taken an Austrian colloquialism and trans- 
lated it into a pictorial image*. This phrase, 
common emougli in ordinary speech, is Du 
kannsf mir auf den Buck el \ (eigen (You can 
climb on my back), which means “I don't care 
w hat you say about me." An American equiva- 
lent, which could easily appear in a similar 
dream, would be “Go jump in the lake." 

One* could say that this dream picture was 
symbolic, for it did not state* the* situation 
directly but e*xpre*sse*d the* point indirectly by 
means of a metaphor that I could not at first 
unde rstand. When this happens as it so ofte n 
doe s it is not deliberate “disguise " by a dream; 
it simply reflects the* deficiencies in our under- 
standing of emotionally charged pie* tori a I langu- 
age*. For in our daily experience we* ne*c*d to 
state* things as accurately as possible*, and we* 
have learned to discard the* trimmings of' 
fantasy both in our language* and in our 
thoughts thus losing a quality that is still 
characteristic of the primitive mind. Most of us 

Not only numbers but such familiar 
objects as stones and trees can 
have symbolic importance for many 
people. Left, rough stones placed 
on the roadside by travelers in 
India represent the (ingam, the 
Hindu phallic symbol of creativity. 
Right, a tree in West Africa that 
the tribesmen call a "ju -jo” or 
spirit tree, and to which they 
ascribe magical power. 


have consigned to the unconscious all the fan- 
tastic psychic associations that every object or 
idea possesses. The primitive, on the other hand, 
is still aware of these psychic properties; he 
endows animals, plants, or stones with powers 
that we find strange and unacceptable. 

An African jungle dweller, for instance, sees 
a nocturnal creature by daylight and knows it 
to be a medicine man who has temporarily 
taken its shape. Or he may regard it as the bush 
soul or ancestral spirit of one of his tribe. A 
tree may play a vital part in the life of a primi- 
tive, apparently possessing for him its own soul 
and voice, and the man concerned will feel that 
he shares its fate. There are some Indians in 
South America who will assure you that they 
are Red Arara parrots, though they are well 
aware that they lack feathers, wings, and beaks. 
For in the primitive’s world things do not have 
the same sharp boundaries they do in our 
“rational” societies. 

What psychologists call psychic identity, or 
“mystical participation,” has been stripped off' 
our world of things. But it is exactly this halo 
of unconscious associations that gives a colorful 
and fantastic aspect to the primitive’s world. 
We have lost it to such a degree that we do not 
recognize it when we meet it again. With us 
such things are kept below the threshold ; w r hen 
they occasionally reappear, we even insist that 
something is wrong. 

I have more than once been consulted by 
well-educated and intelligent people who have 
had peculiar dreams, fantasies, or even visions, 
which have shocked them deeply. They have 

Left, a witch doctor from 

Cameroon wearing a lion mask. V 

He isn't pretending to be a lion; 
he is convinced that he is a lion. 

Like the Nyanga tribesman and his 
bird mask (p. 25), he shares a 
"psychic identity'' with the animal — 
an identity that exists in the realm 
of myth and symbolism. Modern 
"rational" man has tried to cut 
himself off from such psychic 
associations (which nevertheless 
survive in the unconscious) ; to 
him, a spade is a spade and a lion 
is only what the dictionary (right) 
says it is. 

assumed that no one who is in a sound state of 
mind could suffer from such things, and that 
anyone who actually sees a vision must be 
pathologically disturbed. A theologian once told 
me that Ezekiel’s visions were nothing more 
than morbid symptoms, and that, when Moses 
and other prophets heard “voices” speaking to 
them, they were suffering from hallucinations. 
You can imagine the panic he felt when some- 
thing of this kind “spontaneously” happened to 
him. We are so accustomed to the apparently 
rational nature of our world that we can 
scarcely imagine anything happening that can- 
not be explained by common sense. The primi- 
tive man confronted by a shock of this kind 
would not doubt his sanity; he would think of 
fetishes, spirits, or gods. 

Yet the emotions that affect us are just the 
same. In fact, the terrors that stem from our 
elaborate civilization may be far more threaten- 
ing than those that primitive people attribute 
to demons. The attitude of modern civilized 
man sometimes reminds me of a psychotic 
patient in my clinic who was himself a doctor. 
One morning I asked him how he was. He 
replied that he had had a wonderful night dis- 
infecting the whole of heaven with mercuric 
chloride, but that in the course of this thorough- 
going sanitary process he had found no trace of 
God. Here we see a neurosis or something 
worse. Instead of God or the “fear of God,” 
there is an anxiety neurosis or some kind of 
phobia. The emotion has remained the same, 
but its object has changed both its name and 
nature for the worse. 

620 liquefy 

tail, or lion, /Can, n. a large, fierce, tawny, loud-roaring 
1 part animal of the cat family, the male with ahaggv 

gment mane : (fig.) a man of unusual courage : (astron.) 

inding the constellation or the sign Leo: any object of 

ecome interest, esp. a famous or conspicuous person 

?e, an much sought after (from the lions once kept in 

inked : the Tower, one of the sights of l^ondon) : an old 

(elect.) Scots coin, with a lion on the obverse, worth 74 

coils: shillings Scots (James VI.): — fern. U'oness. — ru. 

cscrib- li'oncel, li'onctlle, li'onel, (her.) a small lion 

certain used as a bearing ; li onet, a young lion ; li'on- 

> lion, heart, one with great courage. — adj. li'on- 

em of heart ed. — ft. li'on-hunter, a hunter of lions : 

issing one who runs after celebrities. — v.t. li onise, to 

series treat as a lion or object of interest : to go around 

irm in the sights of : to show the sights to. — n. ii'onism, 

(Prob. lionising : lion-like appearance in leprosy. — odjs. 

1 (pi.), li'on-like, li only. — lion's provider, the jackal, 
supposed to attend upon the lion, really his hanger- 
Shak.) on ; lion’s share, the whole or greater part ; 



Left, St Paul struck down by the Above, Javanese farmers sacrifice a Above, in a modern sculpture by 

impact of his vision of Christ (in cock to protect their fields from Britain's Jacob Epstein, man is seen 

a painting by the 1 6th-century spirits. Such beliefs and practices as a mechanized monster — perhaps 

Italian artist Caravaggio) . are fundamental 

I recall a professor of philosophy who once 
consulted me about his cancer phobia. He suf- 
fered from a compulsive conviction that he had 
a malignant tumor, although nothing of the 
kind was ever found in dozens of X-rav pic- 
tures. "Oh, I know there is nothing, " lie would 
say„ "hut there might be something." What was 
it that produced this idea? It obviously came 
from a fear that was not instilled by conscious 
deliberation. The morbid thought suddenly 
overcame him, and it had a power of its own 
that he could not control. 

II was far more diflicuh for this educated 
man to make an admission of this kind than it 
would have been lor a primitive to sa\ that he 
was plagued by a ghost. The malign influence 
ol evil spirits is at least an aclmissi hie hypothesis 
in <i primitive culture, but il is a shattering ex- 
perience for a civilized person to admit that his 
troubles an nothing more than a foolish prank 
of the imagination. The primitive phenomenon 
ol oh\rs \ tut/ has not vanished: it is the same as 
ever. It is only interpreted in a different and 
more obnoxious w ay. 

1 have made several comparisons of this kind 
between modern and primitive man. Such com- 
parisons, as 1 shall show later, are essential to 

in primitive life. an image of today s ' evil spirits. " 

an understanding of the symbol-making pro- 
pensities of' man, and of the part that dreams 
play in expressing them. For one finds that 
many dreams present images and associations 
that are analogous to primitive ideas, myths, 
and rites. These dream images were called 
‘'archaic remnants" by Freud; the phrase sug- 
gests that they are psychic elements surviving in 
the human mind f rom ages long ago. This point 
of view is characteristic of those who regard the 
unconscious as a mere appendix of conscious- 
ness (or, more picturesquely, as a trash can that 
collects all the refuse of the conscious mind ). 

Further investigation suggested to me that 
this attitude is untenable and should be dis- 
carded. I found that associations and images of 
this kind are an integral part of the uncon- 
scious, and can be observed everywhere 
whether the dreamer is educated or illiterate, 
intelligent or stupid. They are not in any sense 
lifeless or meaningless "remnants." They still 
function, and they are especially valuable <as 
Dr. Henderson shows in a later c hapter of this 
book) just because of their “historical" nature. 
They form a bridge between the ways in w hic h 
we consciously express our thoughts and a more 
primitive, more colorful and pictorial form of 


expression. It is this form, as well, that appeals 
directly to feeling and emotion. These “histori- 
cal” associations are the link between the 
rational vvorld of consciousness and the world 
of instinct*. 

I have already discussed the interesting con- 
trast between the “controlled” thoughts we have 
in waking life and the wealth of imagery pro- 
duced in dreams. Now you can see another 
reason for this difference: Because, in our 
civilized life, we have stripped so many ideas 
of their emotional energy, we do not really 
respond to them any more. We use such ideas 
in our speech, and we show a conventional re- 
action when others use them, but they do not 
make a very deep impression on us. Something 
more is needed to bring certain things home to 
us effectively enough to make us change our 
attitude and behavior. This is what “dream 
language” does; its symbolism has so much 
psychic energy that we are forced to pay atten- 
tion to it. 

There was, for instance, a lady who was well 
known for her stupid prejudices and her stub- 
born resistance to reasoned argument. One 
could have argued with her all night to no 
effect; she would have taken not the slightest 
notice. Her dreams, however, took a different 
line of approach. One night, she dreamed she 
was attending an important social occasion. 
She was greeted by the hostess with the words: 
' How nice that you could come. All your 

friends are here, and they are waiting for you.” 
The hostess then led her to the door and opened 
it, and the dreamer stepped through — into a 
cowshed ! 

This dream language was simple enough to 
be understood even by a blockhead. The 
woman would not at first admit the point of a 
dream that struck so directly at her self-import- 
ance; but its message nevertheless went home, 
and after a time she had to accept it because 
she could not help seeing the self-inflicted joke. 

Such messages from the unconscious are of 
greater importance than most people realize. 
In our conscious life, we are exposed to all kinds 
of influences. Other people stimulate or depress 
us, events at the office or in our social life dis- 
tract us. Such things seduce us into following 
ways that are unsuitable to our individuality. 
Whether or not we are aware of the effect they 
have on our consciousness, it is disturbed by 
and exposed to them almost without defense. 
This is especially the case with a person whose 
extraverted attitude of mind lays all the em- 
phasis upon external objects, or who harbors 
feelings of inferiority and doubt concerning his 
own innermost personality. 

The more that consciousness is influenced by 
prejudices, errors, fantasies, and infantile 
wishes, the more the already existing gap will 
widen into a neurotic dissociation and lead to 
a more or less artificial fife, far removed from 
healthy instincts, nature, and truth. 

Left, two further visualizations 
of spirits: Top, hellish demons 
descend on St, Anthony (a painting 
by the 1 6th-century German artist 
Griinewald). Below, in the center 
panel of a 1 9th -century Japanese 
triptych, the ghost of a murdered 
man strikes down his killer. 

Ideological conflict breeds many 
of modern man's "demons. " Right, a 
cartoon by America's Gahan Wilson 
depicts the shadow of the former 
Russian leader Khrushchev as a 
monstrous death-machine. Far right, 
a cartoon from the Russian magazine 
Krokodil shows “colonialism" as 
a demonic wolf being driven into 
the sea by the flags of various 
independent African nations. 

The general function of dreams is to try to 
restore our psychological balance by producing 
dream material that re-establishes, in a subtle 
way, the total psychic equilibrium. This is what 
I call the complementary (or compensatory) 
role of dreams in our psychic make-up. It ex- 
plains why people who have unrealistic ideas 
or too high an opinion of themselves, or who 
make grandiose plans out of proportion to their 
real capacities, have dreams of flying or falling. 
The dream compensates for the deficiencies of 
their personalities, and at the same time it 
warns them of the dangers in their present 
course. If the warnings of the dream are dis- 
regarded, real accidents may take their place. 
The victim may fall downstairs or may have a 
motor accident. 

I remember the case of a man who was inex- 
tricably involved in a number of shady affairs. 
He developed an almost morbid passion for 
dangerous mountain climbing, as a sort of com- 
pensation. He was seeking “to get above him- 
self.” In a dream one night, he saw himself 
stepping off the summit of a high mountain 
into empty space. When he told me his dream, 
I instantly saw his danger and tried to empha- 
size the warning and persuade him to restrain 
himself. I even told him that the dream fore- 

shadowed his death in a mountain accident. It 
was in vain. Six months later he “stepped off' 
into space.” A mountain guide watched him 
and a friend letting themselves down on a rope 
in a difficult place. The friend had found a 
temporary foothold on a ledge, and the 
dreamer was following him down. Suddenly he 
let go of the rope, according to the guide, “as 
if he were jumping into the air.” He fell upon 
his friend, and both went down and were killed. 

Another typical case was that of a lady who 
was living above herself. She was high and 
mighty in her daily life, but she had shocking 
dreams, reminding her of all sorts of unsavory 
things. When I discovered them, she indig- 
nantly refused to acknowledge them. The 
dreams then became menacing, and full of 
references to the walks she used to take by her- 
self in the woods, where she indulged in soulful 
fantasies. I saw her danger, but she would not 
listen to my many warnings. Soon afterwards, 
she was savagely attacked in the woods by a 
sexual pervert; but for the intervention of some 
people who heard her screams, she would have 
been killed. 

There was no magic in this. What her 
dreams had told me was that this woman had 
a secret longing for such an adventure— just as 


Left, two influences to which an 
individual's consciousness is 
subjected: Advertising {a 1 960s 
American advertisement stressing 
"sociability") and political 
propaganda (a French poster for 
a 1 962 referendum, urging a vote 
of "yes" but plastered with the 
opposition's "no"). These and other 
influences may cause us to live 
in ways unsuited to our individual 
natures; and the psychic imbalance 
that can follow must be compensated 
for by the unconscious. 

The lighthouse keeper, right (in 
a cartoon by America's Roland B 
Wilson), has apparently become 
a little disturbed psychologically 
by his isolation His unconscious, 
in its compensatory function, has 
produced a hallucinatory companion, 
to whom the keeper confesses (in 
the cartoon caption) : "Not only 
that, Bill, but I caught myself 
talking to myself again yesterday !" 

The Delphic oracle, below, being 
consulted by King Aegeus of Athens 
(from a vase painting). "Messages" 
from the unconscious are often as 
cryptic and ambiguous as were the 
oracle's utterances. 

the mountain climber unconsciously sought the 
satisfaction of finding a definite way out of his 
difficulties. Obviously, neither of them expected 
the stiff price involved: She had several bones 
broken, and he paid with his life. 

Thus dreams may sometimes announce cer- 
tain situations long before they actually happen. 
This is not necessarily a miracle or a form of 
precognition. Many crises in our lives have a 
long unconscious history. We move toward 
them step by step, unaware of the dangers that 
are accumulating. But what we consciously fail 
to see is frequently perceived by our uncon- 
scious, which can pass the information on 
through dreams. 

Dreams may often warn us in this way; but 
just as often, it seems, they do not. Therefore, 
any assumption of a benevolent hand restrain- 
ing us in time is dubious. Or, to state it more 
positively, it seems that a benevolent agency is 
sometimes at work and sometimes not. The 
mysterious hand may even point the way to 
perdition; dreams sometimes prove to be traps, 
or appear to be so. They sometimes behave like 
the Delphic oracle that told King Croesus that 
if he crossed the Halys River he would destroy 
a large kingdom. It was only after he had been 
completely defeated in battle after the crossing 

.i 1 

that he discovered that the kingdom meant by 
the oracle was his own. 

One cannot afford to be naive in dealing 
with dreams. They originate in a spirit that is 
not quite human, but is rather a breath of 
nature — a spirit of the beautiful and generous 
as well as of the cruel goddess. If we want to 
characterize this spirit, we shall certainly get 
closer to it in the sphere of ancient mythologies, 
or the fables of the primeval forest, than in the 
consciousness of modern man. I am not deny- 
ing that great gains have resulted from the 
evolution of civilized society. But these gains 
have been made at the price of enormous losses, 
whose extent we have scarcely begun to esti- 
mate. Part of the purpose of my comparisons 
between the primitive and the civilized states of 
man has been to show the balance of these 
losses and gains. 

Primitive man was much more governed by 
his instincts than are his “rational" modern de- 
scendants, who have learned to “control" them- 
selves. In this civilizing process, we have 
increasingly divided our consciousness from the 
deeper instinctive strata of the human psyche, 
and even ultimately from the somatic basis of 
the psychic phenomenon. Fortunately, we have 
not lost these basic instinctive strata; they re- 
main part of the unconscious, even though 
they may express themselves only in the form of 
dream images. These instinctive phenomena — 
one may not, incidentally, always recognize 
them for what they are, for their character is 
symbolic play a vital part in what I have 
called the compensating function of dreams. 

For the sake of mental stability and even 
physiological health, the unconscious and the 
conscious must be integrally connected and thus 
move on parallel lines. If tliVy are split apart 
or “dissociated," psychological disturbance fol- 
lows. In this respect, dream symbols are the 
essential message carriers from the instinctive to 
the rational parts of the human mind, and their 
interpretation enriches the poverty of conscious- 
ness so that it learns to understand again the 
forgotten language of the instincts. 

Of course, people are bound to query this 
function, since its symbols so often pass un- 

noticed or uncomprehended. In normal life, the 
understanding of dreams is often considered 
superfluous. I can illustrate this by my experi- 
ence with a primitive tribe in F,ast Africa. To 
my amazement, these tribesmen denied that 
they had any dreams. But through patient, in- 
direct talks with them I soon found that they 
had dreams just like everyone else, but that 
they were convinced their dreams had no 
meaning. “Dreams of ordinary men mean 
nothing," they told me. They thought that the 
only dreams that mattered were those of chiefs 
and medicine men; these, which concerned the 
welfare of the tribe, were highly appreciated. 
The only drawback w'as that the chiei and the 
medicine man both claimed that they had 
ceased having meaningful dreams. They dated 
this change from the time that the British came 
to their country. The district commissioner — 
the British official in charge of therm had 
taken over the function of the “great dreams" 
that had hitherto guided the tribe's behavior. 

When these tribesmen conceded that they did 
have dreams, but thought them meaningless, 
they were like the modern man who thinks that 
a dream has no significance for him simply be- 
cause he does not understand it. But even a 
civilized man can sometimes observe that a 
dream (which he may not even remember) can 
alter his mood for better or worse. The dream 

5 2 

has been “comprehended,” but only in a sub- 
liminal way. And that is what usually happens. 
It is only on the rare occasions when a dream 
is particularly impressive or repeats itself at 
regular intervals that most people consider an 
interpretation desirable. 

Here I ought to add a word of warning 
against unintelligent or incompetent dream 
analysis. There are some people whose mental 
condition is so unbalanced that the interpreta- 
tion of their dreams can be extremely risky; in 
such a case, a very one-sided consciousness is 
cut off from a correspondingly irrational or 
“crazy” unconscious, and the two should not 
be brought together without taking special 

And, speaking more generally, it is plain fool- 
ishness to believe in ready-made systematic 
guides to dream interpretation, as if one could 
simply buy a reference book and look up a par- 
ticular symbol. No dream symbol can be sepa- 
rated from the individual who dreams it, and 
there is no definite or straightforward interpre- 
tation of any dream. Each individual varies so 
much in the way that his unconscious comple- 
ments or compensates his conscious mind that 
it is impossible to be sure how far dreams and 
their symbols can be classified at all. 

It is true that there are dreams and single 
symbols (I should prefer to call them “motifs”) 

that are typical and often occur. Among such 
motifs are falling, flying, being persecuted by 
dangerous animals or hostile men, being insuffi- 
ciently or absurdly clothed in public places, 
being in a hurry or lost in a milling crowd, 
fighting with useless weapons or being wholly 
defenseless, running hard yet getting nowhere. 
A typical infantile motif is the dream of grow- 
ing infinitely small or infinitely big, or being 
transformed from one to the other— as you find 
it, for instance, in Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Won- 
derland. But I must stress again that these are 
motifs that must be considered in the context of 
the dream itself, not as self-explanatory ciphers. 

The recurring dream is a noteworthy pheno- 
menon. There are cases in which people have 
dreamed the same dream from childhood into 
the later years of adult life. A dream of this 
kind is usually an attempt to compensate for a 
particular defect in the dreamer’s attitude to 
life; or it may date from a traumatic moment 
that has left behind some specific prejudice. It 
may also sometimes anticipate a future event 
of importance. 

I myself dreamed of a motif over several 
years, in which I would “discover” a part of my 
house that I did not know existed. Sometimes 
it was the quarters where my long-dead parents 
lived, in which my father, to my surprise, had 
a laboratory where he studied the comparative 

Left, a photograph of Jung (fourth 
from the right) in 1 926 with the 
tribesmen of Mt. Elgon, Kenya. 
Jung's firsthand study of primitive 
societies led to many of his most 
valuable psychological insights. 

Right, two dream books — one from 
20th-century Britain and the other 
from ancient Egypt (the latter is 
among the oldest written documents 
extant, c. 2000 b.c.). Such ready- 
made, rule-of-thumb interpretation 
of dreams is worthless; dreams are 
highly individualized, and their 
symbolism cannot be pigeonholed. 





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anatomy of fish and my mother ran a hotel for 
ghostly visitors. Usually this unfamiliar guest 
wing was an ancient historical building, long 
forgotten, yet my inherited property. It con- 
tained interesting antique furniture, and toward 
the end of this series of dreams I discovered an 
old library whose books were unknown to me. 
Finally, in the last dream, I opened one of the 
books and found in it a profusion of the most 
marvelous symbolic pictures. When I awoke, 
my heart was palpitating with excitement. 

Some time before I had this particular last 
dream of the series, I had placed an order with 
an antiquarian bookseller for one of the classic 
compilations of medieval alchemists. I had 
found a quotation in literature that I thought 
might have some connection with early Byzan- 
tine alchemy, and I wished to check it. Several 
weeks after I had had the dream of the un- 
known book, a parcel arrived from the book- 
seller. Inside was a parchment volume dating 
from the 16th century. It was illustrated by 
fascinating symbolic pictures that instantly re- 
minded me of those I had seen in my dream. 
As the rediscovery of the principles of alchemy 
came to be an important part of my work as a 
pioneer of psychology, the motif of my recur- 
ring dream can easily be understood. The 
house, of course, was a symbol of my person- 
ality and its conscious field of interests; and the 
unknown annex represented the anticipation of 
a new field of interest and research of which my 
conscious mind was at that time unaware. From 
that moment, 30 years ago, I never had the 
dream again. 


Top of page, a famous example of 
the common dream of growing larger: 
a drawing from Alice in Wonderland 
(1 877) shows Alice growing to fill 
a house. Center, the equally common 
dream of flying, in a 1 9th-century 
drawing (by the British artist 
William Blake) entitled: "O, How 
I Dreamt of Things Impossible." 



The analysis of dreams 

I began this essay by noting the difference be- 
tween a sign and a symbol. The sign is always 
less than the concept it represents, while a sym- 
bol always stands for something more than its 
obvious and immediate meaning. Symbols, 
moreover, are natural and spontaneous pro- 
ducts. No genius has ever sat down with a pen 
or a brush in his hand and said: “Now I am 
going to invent a symbol.” No one can take a 
more or less rational thought, reached as a logi- 
cal conclusion or by deliberate intent, and then 
give it “symbolic” form. No matter what fan- 
tastic trappings one may put upon an idea of 
this kind, it will still remain a sign, linked to 
the conscious thought behind it, not a symbol 
that hints at something not yet known. In 
dreams, symbols occur spontaneously, for 
dreams happen and are not invented ; they are, 
therefore, the main source of all our knowledge 
about symbolism. 

But symbols, I must point out, do not occur 
solely in dreams. They appear in all kinds of 
psychic manifestations. There are symbolic 
thoughts and feelings, symbolic acts and situa- 
tions. It often seems that even inanimate objects 
co-operate with the unconscious in the arrange- 
ment of symbolic patterns. There are numerous 
well-authenticated stories of clocks stopping at 
the moment of their owner’s death; one was 
the pendulum clock in the palace of Frederick 
the Great at Sans Souci, which stopped when 


the king died. Other common examples are 
those of a mirror that breaks, or a picture that 
falls, when a death occurs; or minor but unex- 
plained breakages in a house where someone is 
passing through an emotional crisis. Even if 
skeptics refuse to credit such reports, stories of 
this kind are always cropping up, and this alone 
should serve as ample proof of their psycho- 
logical importance. 

There are many symbols, however (among 
them the most important), that are not indi- 
vidual but collective in their nature and origin. 
These are chiefly religious images. The believer 
assumes that they are of divine origin — that 
they have been revealed to man. The skeptic 
says flatly that they have been invented. Both 
are wrong. It is true, as the skeptic notes, that 
religious symbols and concepts have for cen- 
turies been the object of careful and quite con- 
scious elaboration. It is equally true, as the be- 
liever implies, that their origin is so far buried 
in the mystery of the past that they seem to 
have no human source. But they are in fact 
“collective representations,” emanating from 
primeval dreams and creative fantasies. As 
such, these images are involuntary spontaneous 
manifestations and by no means intentional 

This fact, as I shall later explain, has a direct 
and important bearing upon the interpretation 
of dreams. It is obvious that if you assume the 

Inanimate objects sometimes seem 
to ''act'' symbolically: left, the 
clock of Frederick the Great, which 
stopped when its owner died in 1 786. 

Symbols are produced spontaneously 
from the unconscious (though they 
may later be consciously elaborated). 
Right, the ankh, ancient Egypt's 
symbol of life, the universe, and 
man. By contrast, the airways 
insignia (far right) are consciously 
contrived signs, not symbols. 


dream to be symbolic, you will interpret it dif- 
ferently from a person who believes that the 
essential energizing thought or emotion is 
known already and is merely “disguised” by the 
‘dream. In the latter case, dream interpretation 
makes little sense, for you find only what you 
already know. 

It is for this reason that I have always said 
to my pupils: “Learn as much as you can 
about symbolism; then forget it all when you 
are analyzing a dream/’ This advice is of such 
practical importance that I have made it a rule 
to remind myself that I can never understand 
somebody else’s dream well enough to interpret 
it correctly. I have done this in order to check 
the flow of my own associations and reactions, 
which might otherwise prevail over my patient’s 
uncertainties and hesitations. As it is of the 
greatest therapeutic importance for an analyst 
to get the particular message of a dream (that 
is, the contribution that the unconscious is mak- 
ing to the conscious mind) as accurately as pos- 
sible, it is essential for him to explore the con- 
tent of a dream with the utmost thoroughness. 

I had a dream when I was working with 
Freud that illustrates this point. I dreamed that 
I was in “my home,” apparently on the first 
floor, in a cosy, pleasant sitting room furnished 
in the manner of the 18th century. I was aston- 
ished that I had never seen this room before, 
and began to wonder what the ground floor 
was like. I went downstairs and found the place 
was rather dark, with paneled walls and heavy 

furniture dating from the 16th century or even 
earlier. My surprise and curiosity increased. I 
wanted to see more of the whole structure of 
this house. So I went down to the cellar, where 
I found a door opening onto a flight of stone 
steps that led to a large vaulted room. The floor 
consisted of large slabs of stone and the walls 
seemed very ancient. I examined the mortar 
and found it was mixed with splinters of brick. 
Obviously the walls were of Roman origin. I 
became increasingly excited. In one corner, I 
saw an iron ring on a stone slab. I pulled up 
the slab and saw yet another narrow flight of 
steps leading to a kind of cave, which seemed 
to be a prehistoric tomb, containing two skulls, 
some bones, and broken shards of pottery. Then 
I woke up. 

If Freud, when he analyzed this dream, had 
followed my method of exploring its specific 
associations and context, he would have heard 
a far-reaching story. But I am afraid he would 
have dismissed it as a mere effort to escape 
from a problem that was really his own. The 
dream is in fact a short summary of my life, 
more specifically of the development of my 
mind. I grew up in a house 200 years old, our 
furniture consisted mostly of pieces about 300 
years old, and mentally my hitherto greatest 
spiritual adventure had been to study the philo- 
sophies of Kant and Schopenhauer. The great 
news of the day was the work of Charles Dar- 
win. Shortly before this, I had been living with 
the still medieval concepts of my parents, for 


Right, Jung's mother and father. 
Jung's interest in ancient religion 
and mythology drew him away from 
the religious world of his parents 
(his father was a pastor) — as 
shown by the dream, discussed 
on this page, that he had while 
working with Freud. Far right, 

Jung at Burgholzli Hospital, Zurich, 
where he worked in 1 900 as a 


r whom the world and men were still presided 
over by divine omnipotence and providence. 

, This world had become antiquated and obso- 
lete. My Christian faith had become relative 
through its encounter with Eastern religions 
and Greek philosophy. It is for this reason that 
the ground floor was so still, dark, and obvi- 
ously uninhabited. 

My then historical interests had developed 
from an original preoccupation with compara- 
tive anatomy and paleontology while I was 
working as an assistant at the Anatomical In- 
stitute. I was fascinated by the bones of fossil 
man, particularly by the much discussed Nean- 
derthalensis and the still more controversial 
skull of Dubois’ Pithecanthropus. As a matter 
of fact these were my real associations to the 
dream; but I did not dare to mention the sub- 
ject of skulls, skeletons, or corpses to Freud, 
because I had learned that this theme was not 
popular with him. He cherished the peculiar 
idea that I anticipated his early death. And he 
drew this conclusion from the fact that I had 
shown much interest in the mummified corpses 
in the so-called Bleikeller in Bremen, which we 
visited together in 1909 on our way to take the 
boat to America. 

Thus I felt reluctant to come out with my 
own thoughts, since through recent experience 
I was deeply impressed by the almost unbridge- 
• able gap between Freud’s mental outlook and 
background and my own. I was afraid of losing 
his friendship if I should open up to him about 

my own inner world, which, I surmised, would 
look very queer to him. Feeling quite uncertain 
about my own psychology, I almost automati- 
cally told him a lie about my “free associations” 
in order to escape the impossible task of enlight- 
ening him about my very personal and utterly 
different constitution. 

I must apologize for this rather lengthy nar- 
ration of the jam I got into through telling 
Freud my dream. But it is a good example of 
the difficulties in which one gets involved in 
the course of a real dream analysis. So much 
depends upon the personal differences between 
the analyst and the analyzed. 

I soon realized that Freud was looking for 
some incompatible wish of mine. And so I sug- 
gested tentatively that the skulls I had dreamed 
of might refer to certain members of my family 
whose death, for some reason, I might desire. 
This proposal met with his approval, but I was 
not satisfied with such a “phoney” solution. 

While I was trying to find a suitable answer 
to Freud’s questions, I was suddenly confused 
by an intuition about the role that the subjec- 
tive factor plays in psychological understand- 
ing. My intuition was so overwhelming that I 
thought only of how to get out of' this impos- 
sible snarl, and I took the easy way out bv a 
lie. This was neither elegant nor morally defen- 
sible, but otherwise I should have risked a fatal 
row with Freud — and I did not feel up to that 
for many reasons. 

My intuition consisted of the sudden and 
most unexpected insight into the fact that my 
dream meant myself, my life and my world, my 
whole reality against a theoretical structure 
erected by another, strange mind for reasons 
and purposes of its own. It was not Freud’s 
dream , it was mine ; and I understood suddenly 
in a flash what my dream meant. 

This conflict illustrates a vital point about 
dream analysis. It is not so much a technique 
that can be learned and applied according to 
the rules as it is a dialectical exchange between 
two personalities. If it is handled as a mechani- 
cal technique, the individual psychic person- 
ality of the dreamer gets lost and the thera- 
peutic problem is reduced to the simple ques- 


tion: Which of the two people concerned — the 
analyst or the dreamer — will dominate the 
other? I gave up hypnotic treatment for this 
very reason, because I did not want to impose 
my will on others. I wanted the healing pro- 
cesses to grow out of the patient’s own person- 
ality, not from suggestions by me that would 
have only a passing effect. My aim was to pro- 
tect and preserve my patient’s dignity and free- 
dom, so that he could live his life according to 
his own wishes. In this exchange with Freud, it 
dawned on me for the first time that before we 
construct general theories about man and his 
psyche we should learn a lot more about the 
real human being we have to deal with. 

The individual is the only reality. The further 
we move away from the individual toward ab- 
stract ideas about Homo sapiens , the more likely 
we are to fall into error. In these times of social 
upheaval and rapid change, it is desirable to 
know much more than we do about the indi- 
vidual human being, for so much depends upon 
his mental and moral qualities. But if we are 
to see things in their right perspective, we need 
to understand the past of man as well as his 
present. That is why an understanding of myths 
and symbols is of essential importance. 

The problem of types 

In all other branches of science, it is legitimate 
to apply a hypothesis to an impersonal subject. 
Psychology, however, inescapably confronts 
you with the living relations between two indi- 
viduals, neither of whom can be divested of his 
subjective personality, nor, indeed, depersonal- 
ized in any other way. The analyst and his 
patient may set out by agreeing to deal with a 
chosen problem in an impersonal and objective 
manner; but once they are engaged, their 
whole personalities are involved in their discus- 
sion. At this point, further progress is. possible 
only if mutual agreement can be reached. 

Can we make any sort of objective judgment 
about the final result? Only if we make a com- 
parison between our conclusions and the stan- 
dards that are generally valid in the social 
milieu to which the individuals belong. Even 
then, we must take into account the mental 
equilibrium (or “sanity”) of the individual con- 
cerned. For the result cannot be a completely 
collective leveling out of the individual to 

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An assertive extravert overpowers 
a withdrawn introvert in a cartoon 
by America's Jules Feiffer. These 
Jungian terms for human "types" 
are not dogmatic: For instance, 
Gandhi, right, was both an ascetic 
(introvert) and a political leader 
(extravert). An individual — any face 
in the crowd (far right) —can only 
more or/e^s be categorized. 

adjust him to the “norms” of his society. This 
would amount to a most unnatural condition. 
A sane and normal society is one in which 
people habitually disagree, because general 
agreement is relatively rare outside the sphere 
of instinctive human qualities. 

Disagreement functions as a vehicle of 
mental life in society, but it is not a goal ; agree- 
ment is equally important. Because psychology 
basically depends upon balanced opposites, no 
judgment can be considered to be final in 
which its reversibility has not been taken into 
account. The reason for this peculiarity lies in 
the fact that there is no standpoint above or 
outside psychology that would enable us to 
form an ultimate judgment of what the 
psyche is. 

In spite of the fact that dreams demand indi- 
vidual treatment, some generalities are neces- 
sary in order to classify and clarify the material 
that the psychologist collects by studying many 
individuals. It would obviously be impossible to 

formulate any psychological theory, or to teach 
it, by describing large numbers of separate cases 
without any effort to see what they have in 
common and how they differ. Any general 
characteristic can be chosen as a basis. One 
can, for instance, make a relatively simple dis- 
tinction between individuals who have “extra- 
verted” personalities and others who are “intro- 
verted.” This is only one of many possible 
generalizations, but it enables one to see imme- 
diately the difficulties that can arise if the ana- 
lyst should happen to be one type and his 
patient the other. 

Since any deeper analysis of dreams leads to 
the confrontation of two individuals, it will 
obviously make a great diff erence whether their 
types of attitude are the same or not. If both 
belong to the same type, they may sail along 
happily for a long time. But if one is an extra- 
vert and the other an introvert, their different 
and contradictory standpoints may clash right 
away, particularly when they are unaware of 


their own type of personality, or when they 
are convinced that their own is the only right 
type. The extravert, for instance, will choose 
the majority view; the introvert will reject it 
simply because it is fashionable. Such a mis- 
understanding is easy enough because the value 
of the one is the non-value of the other. Freud 
himself, for instance, interpreted the introverted 
type as an individual morbidly concerned with 
himself. But introspection and self-knowledge 
can just as well be of the greatest value and 

It is vitally necessary to take account of such 
differences of personality in dream interpreta- 
tion. It cannot be assumed that the analyst is a 
superman who is above such differences, just 
because he is a doctor who has acquired a 
psychological theory and a corresponding tech- 
nique. He can only imagine himself' to be 
superior in so far as he assumes that his theory 
and technique are absolute truths, capable of 
embracing the whole of' the human psyche. 
Since such an assumption is more than doubt- 
ful. he cannot really be sure of it. Consequently, 
he will be assailed by secret doubts if he con- 
fronts the human wholeness of his patient with 
a theory or technique (which is merely a hypo- 
thesis or an attempt) instead of with his own 
liv ing wholeness. 

The analyst's whole personality is the only 
adequate equivalent of his patient’s personality. 
Psychological experience and knowledge do not 

amount to more than mere advantages on the 
side of the analyst. They do not keep him out- 
side the fray, in which he is bound to be tested 
just as much as his patient. Thus it matters a 
good deal whether their personalities are har- 
monious, in conflict, or complementary. 

Extra version and introversion are just two 
among many peculiarities of human behavior. 
But they are often rather obvious and easily 
recognizable. If one studies extraverted indi- 
viduals, for instance, one soon discovers that 
they differ in many ways from one another, 
and that being extraverted is therefore a super- 
ficial and too general criterion to be really 
characteristic. That is why, long ago, I tried to 
find some further basic peculiarities — peculiari- 
ties that might serve the purpose of giving some 
order to the apparently limitless variations in 
human individuality. 

I had always been impressed by the fact that 
there are a surprising number of individuals 
who never use their minds if they can avoid it, 
and an equal number who do use their minds, 
but in an amazingly stupid way. I was also 
surprised to find many intelligent and wide- 
awake people who lived (as far as one could 
make out) as if they had never learned to use 
their sense organs: They did not see the things 
before their eyes, hear the words sounding in 
their ears, or notice the things they touched or 
tasted. Some lived without being aware of the 
state of their own bodies. 

The "compass" of the psyche — 
another Jungian way of looking at 
people in general. Each point on the 
compass has its opposite: for a 
"thinking" type, the "feeling" side 
would be least developed. ("Feeling" 
here means the faculty of weighing 
and evaluating experience — in the 
way that one might say "I feel that is 
a good thing to do," without needing 
to analyze or rationalize the "why" 
of the action.) Of course, there is 
overlapping in each individual: In 
a "sensation" person the thinking 
or the feeling side could be almost 
as strong (and "intuition," the 
opposite, would be weakest) . 



There were others who seemed to live in a 
most curious condition of consciousness, as if 
the state they had arrived at today were final, 
with no possibility of change, or as if the world 
and the psyche were static and would remain 
so forever. They seemed devoid of all imagina- 
tion, and they entirely and exclusively de- 
pended upon their sense-perception. Chances 
and possibilities did not exist in their world, 
and in “today” there was no real “tomorrow.” 
The future was just the repetition of the past. 

I am trying here to. give the reader a glimpse 
of my own first impressions when I began to 
observe the many people I met. It soon became 
clear to me, however, that the people who used 
their minds were those who thought— that is, 
who applied their intellectual faculty in trying 
to adapt^ themselves to people and circum- 
stances. And the equally intelligent people who 
did not think were those who sought and found 
their way by feeling. 

“Feeling” is a word that needs some explana- 
tion. For instance, one speaks of “feeling” when 
it is a matter of “sentiment” (corresponding to 
the French term sentiment ). But one also 
applies the same word to define an opinion; 
for example, a communication from the White 
House may begin: “The President feels . . . .” 
Furthermore, the word may be used to express 
an intuition: “I had a feeling as if . . . .” 

When I use the word “feeling” in contrast 
to “thinking,” I refer to a judgment of value — 
for instance, agreeable or disagreeable, good or 
bad, and so on. Feeling according to this defi- 
nition is not an emotion (which, as the word 
conveys, is involuntary). Feeling as I mean it is 
(like thinking) a rational (i.c. ordering) func- 
tion, whereas intuition is an irrational (i.c. 
perceiving) function. In so far as intuition is a 
“hunch,” it is not the product of a voluntary 
act; it is rather an involuntary event, which 
depends upon different external or internal cir- 
cumstances instead of an act of judgment. 
Intuition is more like a sense-perception, which 
is also an irrational event in so far as it de- 
pends essentially upon objective stimuli, which 
owe their existence to physical and not to 
mental causes. 

These four functional types correspond to the 
obvious means by which consciousness obtains 
its orientation to experience. Sensation (i.c. 
sense-perception) tells you that something 
exists; thinking tells you what it is ; feeling tells 
you whether it is agreeable or not; and intuition 
tells you whence it comes and where it is going. 

The reader should understand that these 
four criteria of types of human behavior are 
just four viewpoints among many others, like 
will power, temperament, imagination, mem- 
ory, and so on. There is nothing dogmatic about 
them, but their basic nature recommends them 
as suitable criteria for a classification. I find 
them particularly helpful when I am called 
upon to explain parents to children and hus- 
bands to wives, and vice versa. They are also 
useful in understanding one’s own prejudices. 

Thus, if you want to understand another 
person’s dream, you have to sacrifice your own 
predilections and suppress your prejudices. This 
is not easy or comfortable, because it means a 
moral effort that is not to everyone’s taste. But 
if the analyst does not make the effort to criti- 
cize his own standpoint and to admit its rela- 
tivity, he will get neither the right information 
about, nor sufficient insight into, his patient’s 
mind. The analyst expects at least a certain 
willingness on the patient’s part to listen to his 
opinion and to take it seriously, and the patient 
must be granted the same right. Although such 
a relationship is indispensable for any under- 
standing and is therefore of self-evident neces- 
sity, one must remind oneself again and again 
that it is more important in therapy for the 
patient to understand than for the analyst’s 
theoretical expectations to be satisfied. The 
patient’s resistance to the analyst’s interpreta- 
tion is not necessarily wrong; it is rather a sure 
sign that something does not “click.” Father the 
patient has not yet reached the point where he 
understands, or the interpretation does not fit. 

In our efforts to interpret the dream symbols 
of another person, we are almost invariably' 
hampered by our tendency to fill in the un- 
avoidable gaps in our understanding by pro- 
jection that is, by the assumption that what 
the analyst perceives or thinks is equally per- 


ceived or thought by the dreamer. To overcome 
this source of error, I have always insisted on 
the importance of sticking to the context of the 
particular dream and excluding all theoretical 
assumptions about dreams in general — except 
for the hypothesis that dreams in some way 
make sense. 

It will be clear from all I have said that we 
cannot lay down general rules for interpreting 
dreams. When I suggested earlier that the over* 
all function of dreams seems to be to compen- 
sate for deficiencies or distortions in the 
conscious mind, I meant that this assumption 
opened up the most promising approach to the 
nature of particular dreams. In some cases you 
can see this function plainly demonstrated. 

One of my patients had a very high opinion 
of himself and was unaware that almost every- 
one who knew him was irritated by his air of 
moral superiority. He came to me with a dream 
in which he had seen a drunken tramp rolling 
in a ditch — a sight that evoked from him only 
the patronizing comment: “It's terrible to see 
how low a man can fall.” It was evident that 
the unpleasant nature of the dream was at 
least in part an attempt to offset his inflated 
opinion of his own merits. But there was some- 
thing more to it than this. It turned out that 
he had a brother who was a degenerate alco- 
holic. What the dream also revealed was that 
his superior attitude was compensating the 
brother, as both an outer and an inner figure. 

In another case I recall, a woman who was 
proud of her intelligent understanding of 
psychology had recurring dreams about another 
woman. When in ordinary life she met this 
woman, she did not like her, thinking her a 
vain and dishonest intriguer. But in the dreams 
the woman appeared almost as a sister, friendly 
and likeable. My patient could not understand 
why she should dream so favorably about a 
person she disliked. But these dreams were try- 
ing to convey the idea that she herself was 
“shadowed" by an unconscious character that 
resembled the other woman. It was hard for 
my patient, who had very clear ideas about her 
own personality, to realize that the dream was 
telling her about her own power complex and 

her hidden motivations — unconscious influen- 
ces that had more than once led to disagreeable 
rows with her friends. She had always blamed 
others for these, not herself. 

It is not merely the “shadow” side of our per- 
sonalities that we overlook, disregard, and re- 
press. We may also do the same to our positive 
qualities. An example that comes to mind is 
that of an apparently modest and self-effacing 
man, with charming manners. He always 
seemed content with a back seat, but discreetly 
insisted on being present. When asked to speak 
he would offer a well-informed opinion, though 
he never intruded it. But he sometimes hinted 
that a given matter could be dealt with in a 
far superior way at a certain higher level 
(though he never explained how). 

In his dreams, however, he constantly had 
encounters with great historical figures, such 
as Napoleon and Alexander the Great. These 
dreams were clearly compensating for an in- 
feriority complex. But they had another impli- 
cation. What sort of man must I be, the dream 
was asking, to have such illustrious callers? In 
this respect the dreams pointed to a secret meg- 


alomania, which offset the dreamer’s feeling of 
inferiority. This unconscious idea of grandeur 
insulated him from the reality of his environ- 
ment and enabled him to remain aloof from 
obligations that would be imperative for other 
people. He felt no need to prove — either to 
himself or to others — that his superior judg- 
ment was based on superior merit. 

He was, in fact, unconsciously playing an 
insane game, and the dreams were seeking to 
bring it to the level of consciousness in a curi- 
ously ambiguous way. Hobnobbing with Napo- 
leon and being on speaking terms with 
Alexander the Great are exactly the kind of 
fantasies produced by an inferiority complex. 
But why, one asks, could not the dream be 
open and direct about it and say what it had 
to say without ambiguity? 

I have frequently been asked this question, 
and I have asked it myself. I am often surprised 
at the tantalizing way dreams seem to evade 
definite information or omit the decisive point. 
Freud assumed the existence of a special func- 
tion of the psyche, which he called the “cen- 
sor.” This, he supposed, twisted the dream 

images and made them unrecognizable or mis- 
leading in order to deceive the dreaming con- 
sciousness about the real subject of the dream. 
By concealing the critical thought from the 
dreamer, the “censor” protected his sleep 
against the shock of a disagreeable reminiscence. 
But I am skeptical about the theory that the 
dream is a guardian of sleep; dreams just as 
often disturb sleep. 

It rather looks as if the approach to con- 
sciousness has a “blotting-out” effect upon the 
subliminal contents of the psyche. The sublimi- 
nal state retains ideas and images at a much 
lower level of tension than they possess in con- 
sciousness. In the subliminal condition they 
lose clarity of definition; the relations between 
them are less consequential and more vaguely 
analogous, less rational and therefore more “in- 
comprehensible .’ 1 This can also be observed in 
all dreamlike conditions, whether due to 
fatigue, fever, or toxins. But if something hap- 
pens to endow any of these images with greater 
tension, they become less subliminal and, as 
they come close to the threshold of conscious- 
ness, more sharply defined. 

Left, a down-and-out alcoholic in 
a New York slum (from the 1 955 film 
On the Bowery). Such a figure might 
appear in the dreams of a man who 
felt himself to be superior to 
others. In this way his unconscious 
would be compensating for his 
conscious mind's onesidedness. 

Right, The Nightmare, painted by 
the 1 8th-century Swiss-born artist 
Henry Fuseli. Almost everyone has 
been awakened, upset, or disturbed 
by his dreams; our sleep does not 
appear to be protected from the 
contents of the unconscious. 

It is from this fact that one may understand 
why dreams often express themselves as analo- 
gies, why one dream image slides into another, 
and why neither the logic nor the time scale 
of our waking life seems to apply. The form 
that dreams take is natural to the unconscious 
because the material from which they are pro- 
duced is retained in the subliminal state in pre- 
cisely this fashion. Dreams do not guard sleep 
from what Freud called the “incompatible 
wish.” What he called “disguise” is actually 
the shape all* impulses naturally take in the 
unconscious. Thus, a dream cannot produce a 
definite thought. If it begins to do so, it ceases 
to be a dream because it crosses the threshold 
of consciousness. That is why dreams seem to 
skip the very points that are most important to 
the conscious mind, and seem rather to mani- 
fest the “fringe of consciousness,” like the faint 
gleam of stars during a total eclipse of the sun. 

We should understand that dream symbols 
are for the most part manifestations of a psyche 
that is beyond the control of the conscious 
mind. Meaning and purposefulness are not the 
prerogatives of the mind ; they operate in the 
whole of living nature. There is no difference 
in principle between organic and psychic 
growth. As a plant produces its flower, so the 
psyche creates its symbols. Every dream is 
evidence of this process. 

So, by means of dreams (plus all sorts of 
intuitions, impulses, and other spontaneous 
events), instinctive forces influence the activity 
of consciousness. Whether that influence is for 
better or for worse depends upon the actual 
contents of the unconscious. If it contains too 
many things that normally ought to be con- 
scious, then its function becomes twisted and 
prejudiced; motives appear that are not based 
upon true instincts, but that owe their exist- 
ence and psychic importance to the fact that 
they have been consigned to the unconscious by 
repression or neglect. They overlay, as it were, 
the normal unconscious psyche and distort its 
natural tendency to express basic symbols and 
motifs. Therefore it is reasonable for a psycho- 
analyst, concerned with the causes of a mental 
disturbance, to begin by eliciting from his 

patient a more or less voluntary confession and 
realization of everything that the patient dis- 
likes or fears. 

This is like the much older confession of the 
Church, which in many ways anticipated 
modern psychological techniques. At least this 
is the general rule. In practice, however, it may 
work the other way round ; overpowering feel- 
ings of inferiority or serious weakness may make 
it very difficult, even impossible, for the patient 
to face fresh evidence of his own inadequacy. 
So I have often found it profitable to begin by 
giving a positive outlook to the patient; this 
provides a helpful sense of security when he 
approaches the more painful insights. 

Take as an example a dream of “personal 
exaltation” in which, for instance, one has tea 
with the queen of England, or finds oneself on 
intimate terms with the pope. If the dreamer 
is not a schizophrenic, the practical interpreta- 
tion of the symbol depends very much upon his 
present state of mind - that is, the condition of 
his ego. If the dreamer overestimates his own 
value, it is easy to show (from the material pro- 
duced by association of ideas) how inappropri- 
ate and childish the dreamer’s intentions are, 
and how much they emanate from childish 
wishes to be equal to or superior to his parents. 
But if it is a case of inferiority, where an all- 
pervading feeling of worthlessness has already 
overcome every positive aspect of the dreamer’s 
personality, it would be quite wrong to depress 
him still more by showing how infantile, ridicu- 
lous, or even perverse he is. That would cruelly 
increase his inferiority, as well as cause an 
unwelcome and quite unnecessary resistance to 
the treatment. 

There is no therapeutic technique or doctrine 
that is of general application, since every case 
that one receives for treatment is an individual 
in a specific condition. I remember a patient I 
once had to treat over a period of nine years. 

Right, the heroic dreams with which 
Walter Mitty (in the 1 947 film of 
James Thurber's story) compensates 
his sense of inferiority. 

I saw him only for a few weeks each year, since 
he lived abroad. From the start I knew what his 
real trouble was, but I also saw that the least 
attempt to get close to the truth was met by a 
violent defensive reaction that threatened a 
complete rupture between us. Whether I liked 
it or not, I had to do my best to maintain our 
relation and to follow his inclination, which was 
supported by his dreams and which led our 
discussion away from the root of his neurosis. 
We ranged so widely that 1 often accused myself 
of leading my patient astray. Nothing but the 
fact that his condition slowly but clearly 
improved prevented me from confronting him 
brutally with the truth. 

In the 10th year, however, the patient de- 
clared himself to be cured and freed from all 
his symptoms. I was surprised because theoreti- 
cally his condition was incurable. Noticing my 
astonishment, he smiled and said (in effect) : 
“And I want to thank you above all for your 
unfailing tact and patience in helping me to 
circumvent the painful cause of my neurosis. 

I am now ready to tell you everything about it. 

If I had been able to talk freely about it, I 
would have told you what it was at my first 
consultation. But that would have destroyed 
my rapport with you. Where should I have been 
then? I should have been morally bankrupt. In 
the course of 10 years I have learned to trust 
you; and as my confidence grew, my condi- 
tion improved. I improved because this slow 
process restored my belief in myself. Now I am 
strong enough to discuss the problem that was 
destroying me.” 

He then made a devastatingly frank confes- 
sion of his problem, which showed me the reas- 
ons for the peculiar course our treatment had 
had to follow. The original shock had been 
such that alone he had been unable to face it. 
He needed the help of another, and the thera- 
peutic task was the slow establishment of con- 
fidence, rather than the demonstration of a 
clinical theory. 

From cases like this I learned to adapt my 
methods to the needs of the individual patient, 
rather than to commit myself to general theore- 
tical considerations that might be inapplicable 

6 5 

in any particular case. The knowledge of 
human nature that I have accumulated in the 
course of 60 years of practical experience has 
taught me to consider each case as a new one 
in which, first of* all, I have had to seek the in- 
dividual approach. Sometimes I have not hesi- 
tated to plunge into a careful study ol infantile 
events and fantasies; at other times I have be- 
gun at the top, even if this has meant soaring 
straight into the most remote metaphysical 
speculations. It all depends on learning the 
language of the individual patient and follow- 
ing the gropings of his unconscious toward the 
light. Some cases demand one method and some 

This is especially true when one seeks to in- 
terpret symbols. Two different individuals may 
have almost exactly the same dream. (This, as 
one soon discovers in clinical experience, is less 
uncommon than the layman may think.) Yet 
if. for instance, one dreamer is young and the 
other old, the problem that disturbs them is 
correspondingly different, and it would be 
obviously absurd to interpret both dreams in 
the same way. 

An example that comes to my mind is a 
dream in which a group of young men are 
riding on horseback across a wide field. The 
dreamer is in the lead and he jumps a ditch 
full of water, just clearing this hazard. The rest 
of the party fall into the ditch. Now the young 
man who first told me this dream was a 
cautious, introverted type. But I also heard the 
same dream from an old man of daring char- 
acter, who had lived an active and enterprising 
life. At the time he had this dream, he was an 
invalid who gave his doctor and nurse a great 
deal of trouble; he had actually injured him- 
self bv his disobedience of medical instructions. 

It was clear to me that this dream was telling 
the voting man what he ought to do. But it was 
telling the old man what he actually was still 
doing. Whereas it encouraged the hesitant young 
man. tin* old man was in no such need of en- 
couragement; the spirit of enterprise that still 
flickered within him was, indeed, his greatest 
trouble. This example shows how the interpre- 
tation of dreams and symbols largely depends 
upon the individual circumstances of the 
dreamer and the condition of his mind. 

As this museum display shows, the 
fetus of man resembles those of 
other animals (and thus provides 
an indication of man's physical 
evolution). The psyche, too, has 
"evolved"; and some contents of 
modern man's unconscious resemble 
products of the mind of ancient 
man. Jung termed these products 
archetypal images. 


The archetype in dream symbolism 

I have already suggested that dreams serve the 
purpose of compensation. This assumption 
means that the dream is a normal psychic phe- 
nomenon that transmits unconscious reactions 
or spontaneous impulses to consciousness. Many 
dreams can he interpreted with the help of the 
dreamer, who provides both the associations to 
and the context of the dream image, by means 
of which one can look at all its aspects. 

This method is adequate in all ordinary 
cases, such as those when a relative, a friend, 
or a patient tells you a dream more or less in 
the course of conversation. But when it is a 
matter of obsessive dreaming or of highly emo- 
tional dreams, the personal associations pro- 
duced by the dreamer do not usually suffice for 
a satisfactory interpretation. In such cases, we 
have to take into consideration the fact (first 
observed and commented on by Freud) that 
elements often occur in a dream that are not 
individual and that cannot be derived from 
the dreamer’s personal experience. These ele- 
ments, as I have previously mentioned, are what 
Freud called “archaic remnants'’ mental 
forms whose presence cannot be explained by 
anything in the individual’s own life and which 
seem to be aboriginal, innate, and inherited 
shapes of the human mind. 

Just as the human body represents a whole 
museum of organs, each with a long evolution- 
ary history behind it, so we should expect to 
find that the mind is organized in a similar 
way. It can no more be a product without his- 
tory than is the body in which it exists. By 
“history" I do not mean the fact that the mind 
builds itself up by conscious reference to the 
past through language and other cultural tradi- 
tions. I am referring to the biological, prehis- 
toric, and unconscious development of the mind 
in archaic man, whose psyche was still close to 
that of the animal. 

This immensely old psyche forms the basis 
of our mind, just as much as the structure of 

our body is based on the general anatomical 
pattern of the mammal. The trained eye of the 
anatomist of the biologist finds many traces of 
this original pattern in our bodies. The experi- 
enced investigator of the mind can similarly see 
the analogies between the dream pictures of 
modern man and the products of the primitive 
mind, its “collective images,’’ and its mytholo- 
gical motifs. 

Just as the biologist needs the science of com- 
parative anatomy, however, the psychologist 
cannot do without a “comparative anatomy of 
the psyche." In practice, to put it differently, 
the psychologist must have a sufficient experi- 
ence not only of dreams and other products of 
unconscious activity, but also of mythology in 
its widest sense. Without this equipment, no- 
body can spot the important analogies; it is not 
possible, for instance, to see the analogy be- 
tween a case of compulsion neurosis and that of 
a classical demonic possession without a work- 
ing knowledge of both. 

My views about the “archaic remnants,” 
which I call “archetypes” or “primordial 
images,” have been constantly criticized by 
people who lack a sufficient knowledge of the 
psychology of dreams and of mythology. The 
term “archetype" is often misunderstood as 
meaning certain definite mythological images 
or motifs. But these are nothing more than 
conscious representations; it would be absurd 
to assume that such variable representations 
could be inherited. 

The archetype is a tendency to form such 
representations of a motif — representations that 
can vary a great deal in detail without losing 
their basic pattern. There are, for instance, 
many representations of the motif of the hostile 
brethren, but the motif itself remains the same. 
My critics have incorrectly assumed that I am 
dealing with “inherited representations,” and 
on that ground they have dismissed the idea of 
the archetype as mere superstition. They have 

6 7 

Man's unconscious archetypal images 
are as instinctive as the ability 
of geese to migrate (in formation) ; 
as ants' forming organized societies; 
as bees' tail-wagging dance (above) 
that communicates to the hive the 
exact location of a food source. 

A modern professor had a "vision" 
exactly like a woodcut in an old 
book that he had never seen. Right, 
the book's title page; and another 
woodcut, symbolizing the male and 
female principles united. Such 
archetypal symbols arise from the 
psyche's age-old collective basis. 


failed to take into account the fact that if 
archetypes were representations that originated 
in our consciousness (or were acquired by con- 
sciousness), we should surely understand them, 
and not be bewildered and astonished when 
they present themselves in our consciousness. 
They are, indeed, an instinctive trend , as 
marked as the impulse of birds to build nests, 
or ants to form organized colonies. 

Here I must clarify the relation between 
instincts and archetypes : What we properly call 
instincts are physiological urges, and are per- 
ceived by the senses. But at the same time, 
they also manifest themselves in fantasies and 
often reveal their presence only by symbolic 
images. These manifestations are what I call 
the archetypes. They are without known origin ; 
and they reproduce themselves in any time or 
in any part of the world -even where trans- 
mission by direct descent or “cross fertilization" 
through migration must be ruled out. 

I can remember many cases of' people who 
have consulted me because they were baffled 
by their own dreams or by their children's. 
They were at a complete loss to understand the 
terms of the dreams. The reason was that the 
dreams contained images that they could not 

relate to anything they could remember or 
could have passed on to their children. Yet 
some of these patients were highly educated : A 
few of them were actually psychiatrists them- 

I vividly recall the case of a professor who 
had had a sudden vision and thought he was 
insane. He came to see me in a state of com- 
plete panic. I simply took a 400-vear-old book 
from the shelf and showed him an old woodcut 
depicting his very vision. “There's no reason for 
you to believe that you're insane," I said to 
him. “They knew about your vision 400 years 
ago." Whereupon he sat dow n entirely deflated, 
but once more normal. 

A very important case came to me from a 
man who was himself a psychiatrist. One day 
he brought me a handwritten booklet he had 
received as a Christmas present from his 10- 
vear-old daughter. It contained a whole series 
of dreams she had had when she was eight. 
They made up the weirdest series of dreams 
that I have ever seen, and I could well under- 
stand w in the father was more than just puz- 
zled by them. Though childlike, they were un- 
canny. and thev contained images whose origin 
was wholly incomprehensible to the father. 

‘A R T' i S . 




flue ; , 

Tpiii runosor noar» » / 





S| t 





4 # 

Mi / ArJSVt 


4 U. D. ltXU, 

Here arc the relevant motifs from the dreams: 

1 . " The evil animal.” a snakelike monster with 
main horns, kills and devours all other animals. 
But (iod comes from the four corners, being in 
fact four separate gods, and gives rebirth to all 
tht* dead animals. 

2. An ascent into heaven, where pagan dances 
are being celebrated; and a descent into hell, 
where angels are doing good deeds. 

A A horde of small animals frightens the 
dreamer. The animals increase to a tremendous 
size, and one of them devours the little girl. 

4. A small mouse is penetrated by worms, 
snakes, fishes, and human beings. Thus the 
mouse becomes human. This portrays the four 
stages of the origin of mankind. 

5. A drop of water is seen, as it appears when 
looked at through a microscope. The girl sees 
that the drop is full of tree branches. This por- 
trays the origin of the world. 

6. A bad bov has a clod of earth and throws 

7 ° 

bits of it at everyone who passes. In this way 
all the passers-by become bad. 

7. A drunken woman falls into the water and 
comes out renewed and sober. 

8. The scene is in America, where many people 
are rolling on an ant heap, attacked by the 
ants. The dreamer, in a panic, falls into a river. 

9. There is a desert on the moon where the 
dreamer sinks so deeply into the ground that 
she reaches hell. 

10. In this dream the girl has a vision of a 
luminous ball. She touches it. Vapors emanate 
from it. A man comes and kills her. 

1 1. The girl dreams she is dangerously ill. Sud- 
denly birds come out of her skin and cover her 

12. Swarms of gnats obscure the sun. the moon, 
and all the stars, except one. That one star falls 
upon the dreamer. 

In the unabridged German original, each 
dream begins with the words of the old fairy 

Parallels to archetypal motifs in 
the girl's first dream (p 70) : 

Left, from Strasbourg Cathedral, 
Christ crucified on Adam s grave - 
symbolizing the theme of rebirth 
(Christ as the second Adam). In 
a Navaho sand painting, above, the 
horned heads are the four corners 
of the world. In Britain's royal 
coronation ceremony, the monarch 
(right. Queen Elizabeth II in 1 953) 
is presented to the people at the 
four doors of Westminster Abbey. 

talc: “Once upon a time. ..." By these words 
the little dreamer suggests that she feels as if 
each dream were a sort of fairy tale, which she 
wants to t (‘1 1 her father as a Christmas present. 
The father tried to explain the dreams in 
terms of their context. But he could not do so, 
for there seemed to he no personal associations 
to them. 

The possibility that these dreams were con- 
scious elaborations can of course be ruled out 
only by someone who knew the child well 
enough to be absolutely sure of her truthfulness. 
(They would, however, remain a challenge to 
our understanding even if they were fantasies. ) 
In this case, the father was convinced that the 
dreams were* authentic, and I have no reason to 
doubt it I knew the little girl myself, but this 
was before she gave her dreams to her fat Inn . 
so that I had no chance to ask her about them. 
She lived abroad and died of an infectious 
disease about a year after that Christmas. 

Her dreams have a decidedly peculiar char- 
acter. Their leading thoughts are markedly 
philosophic in concept. The first one, for 
instance, speaks of an evil monster killing other 
animals, but God gives rebirth to them all 
through a divine Apokatastasis , or restitution. 
In the Western world this idea is known 
through the Christian tradition. It can be found 
in the Acts of the Apostles in : 2 1 : “[Christ] 
whom the heaven must receive until the time of 
restitution of all things. . . .” The early Greek 
Fathers of the Church (for instance, Origen) 
particularly insisted upon the idea that, at the 
end of time, everything will be restored by the 
Redeemer to its original and perfect state. But, 
according to St. Matthew xvn:ll, there was 
already an old Jewish tradition that Elias “truly 
shall first come, and restore all things.” I Corin- 
thians xv:22 refers to the same idea in the 
following words : “For as in Adam all die, even 
so in Christ shall all be made alive.” 

One might guess that the child had encoun- 
tered this thought in her religious education. 

But she had very little religious background. 
Her parents were Protestants in name; but in 
fact they knew the Bible only from hearsay. It 
is particularly unlikely that the recondite image 
of Apokatastasis had been fully explained to the 
girl. Certainly her father had never heard of 
this mythical idea. 

Nine of the 12 dreams are influenced by the 
theme of destruction and restoration. And none 
of these dreams shows traces of specific Chris- 
tian education or influence. On the contrary, 
they are more closely related to primitive 
myths. This relation is corroborated by the 
other motif the “cosmogonic myth” (the cre- 
ation of the world and of man) that appears in 
the fourth and filth dreams. The same connec- 
tion is found in I Corinthians xv:22, which I 
have just quoted. In this passage too, Adam 
and Christ (death and resurrection) are linked 

The general idea of Christ the Redeemer 
belongs to the world-wide and pre-Christ theme 
of the hero and rescuer who, although he has 

Above, the hero-god Raven (of the 
Haida Indians of America's Pacific 
Coast) in the belly of a whale — 
corresponding to the "devouring 
monster" motif in the girl's first 
dream (p. 70). 

The girl's second dream — of angels 
in hell and demons in heaven — 
seems to embody the idea of the 
relativity of morality. The same 
concept is expressed in the dual 
aspect of the fallen angel who is 
both Satan, the devil, and (right) 
Lucifer, the resplendent bringer 
of light. These opposites can also 
be seen in the figure of God, far 
right (in a drawing by Blake): He 
appears to Job, in a dream, with 
a cloven hoof like a demon's. 

7 2 

been devoured by a monster, appears again in 
a miraculous way, having overcome whatever 
monster it was that swallowed him. When and 
where such a motif originated nobody knows. 
We do not even know how to go about investi- 
gating the problem. The one apparent certainty 
is that every generation seems to have known it 
as a tradition handed down from some preced- 
ing time. Thus we can safely assume that it 
“originated” at a period when man did not yet 
know that he possessed a hero myth ; in an age, 
that is to say, when he did not yet consciously 
reflect on what he was saying. The hero figure 
is an archetype, which has existed since time 

The production of archetypes by children is 
especially significant, because one can some- 
times be quite certain that a child has had no 
direct access to the tradition concerned. In this 
case, the girl’s family had no more than a 
superficial acquaintance with the Christian tra- 
dition. Christian themes may, of course, be 
represented by such ideas as God, angels, hea- 

ven, hell, and evil. But the way in which they 
are treated by this child points to a totally 
non-Christian origin. 

Let us take the first dream of the God who 
really consists of four gods, coming from the 
“four corners.” The corners of what? There is 
no room mentioned in the dream. A room 
would not even fit in with the picture of what 
is obviously a cosmic event, in which the Uni- 
versal Being himself intervenes. The quaternity 
(or element of “fourness”) itself is a strange 
idea, but one that plays a great role in many 
religions and philosophies. In the Christian re- 
ligion, it has been superseded by the Trinity, a 
notion that we must assume was known to the 
child. But who in an ordinary middle-class 
family of today would be likely to know of a 
divine quaternity? It is an idea that was once 
fairly familiar among students of the Hermetic 
philosophy in the Middle Ages, but it petered 
out with the beginning of the 18th century, and 
it has been entirely obsolete for at least 200 
years. Where, then, did the little girl pick it up? 

\Vjtk Dreams upon my bed tkoa nearest me &c aflngktest me 

with. Visions 


From Ezekiel's vision? But there is no Christian 
teaching that identifies the seraphim with God. 

The same question may he asked about the 
horned serpent. In the Bible, it is true, there 
are many horned animals in the Book of 
Revelation, for instance. But all these seem to 
be quadruped, although their overlord is the 
dragon, the Greek word for which ( drakon ) also 
means serpent. The horned serpent appears in 
16th-century Latin alchemy as the quadricor- 
nutus serpens dour-horned serpent i, a symbol 
of Mercury and an antagonist of the Christian 
Trinity. But this is an obscure reference. So far 
as I can discover, it is made by only one 
author; and this child had no means of know- 
ing it. 

In the second dream, a motif appears that is 
definitely non-Christian and that contains a re- 
versal of accepted values for instance, pagan 
dances by men in heaven and good deeds by 
angels in hell. This symbol suggests a relativity 
of moral values. Where did tin* child find such 
a revolutionary notion, worthy of Nietzsche's 

These questions lead us to another: What is 
the compensatory meaning of these dreams, to 
which the little girl obviously attributed so 

much importance that she presented them to 
her lather as a Christmas present? 

If the dreamer had been a primitive medi- 
cine man, one could reasonably assume that 
they represent variations of the philosophical 
themes of* death, of resurrection or restitution, 
of the origin of the world, the creation of man, 
and the relativity of* values. But one might give 
up such dreams as hopelessly difficult if one 
tried to interpret them from a personal level. 
They undoubtedly contain “collective images," 
and they are in a way analogous to the doc- 
trines taught to young people in primitive tribes 
when they are about to be initiated as men. At 
such times they learn about what God, or the 
gods, or the "founding” animals have done, 
how the world and man were created, how the 
end of the world will come, and the meaning of 
death. Is there any occasion when we, in Chris- 
tian civilization, hand out similar instructions? 
There is: in adolescence. But many people 
begin to think again of things like this in old 
age, at the approach of death. 

'The little girl, as it happened, was in both 
these situations. She was approaching puberty 
and, at the saint* time, tin* end of her life. Little 
or nothing in the symbolism of her dreams 

The little girl's dreams (p 70) 
contain symbols of creation, death, 
and rebirth, which resemble the 
teachings given to adolescents in 
primitive initiation rituals. Left, 
the end of a Navaho ceremony : 

A girl, having become a woman, 
goes into the desert to meditate 

Death and rebirth symbolism also 
appears in dreams at the end of 
life, when the approach of death 
casts a shadow before it. Right, 
one of Goya's last paintings: The 
strange creature, apparently a 
dog, that emerges from the dark 
can be interpreted as the artist's 
foreshadowing of his death. In 
many mythologies dogs appear as 
guides to the land of the dead. 


points to the beginning of a normal adult life, 
but there are many allusions to destruction and 
restoration. When I first read her dreams, in- 
deed, I had the uncanny feeling that they sug- 
gested impending disaster. The reason I felt 
like that was the peculiar nature of the com- 
pensation that I deduced from the symbolism. 
It was the opposite of what one would expect 
to find in the consciousness of a girl of that age. 

These dreams open up a new and rather 
terrifying aspect of life and death. One would 
expect to find such images in an aging person 
who looks back upon life, rather than to be 
given them by a child who would normally be 
looking forward. Their atmosphere recalls the 
old Roman saying, ‘"Life is a short dream/’ 
rather than the joy and exuberance of its 
springtime. For this child's life was like a 
ver sacrum vovendum (vow of a vernal sacri- 
fice j, as the Roman poet puts it. Experience 
shows that the unknown approach of death 
casts an adumbratio (an anticipatory shadow) 
over the life and dreams of the victim. Even 
the altar in Christian churches represents, on 
the one hand, a tomb and, on the other, a place 
of resurrection the transformation of death 
into eternal life. 

Such are the ideas that the dreams brought 
home to the child. They were a preparation for 
death, expressed through short stories, like the 
tales told at primitive initiations or the Koans 
of Zen Buddhism. This message is unlike the 
orthodox Christian doctrine and more like 
ancient primitive thought. It seems to have 
originated outside historical tradition in the 
long-forgotten psychic sources that, since pre- 
historic times, have nourished philosophical and 
religious speculation about life and death. 

It was as if' future events were casting their 
shadow back by arousing in the child certain 
thought forms that, though normally dormant, 
describe or accompany the approach of a fatal 
issue. Although the specific shape in which they 
express themselves is more or less personal, their 
general pattern is collective. They are found 
everywhere and at all times, just as animal 
instincts vary a good deal in the different 
species and yet serve the same general pur- 
poses. We do not assume that each new-born 
animal creates its own instincts as an individual 
acquisition, and we must not suppose that 
human individuals invent their specific human 
ways with every new birth. Like the instincts, 
the collective thought patterns of the human 
mind are innate and inherited. They function, 
when the occasion arises, in more or less the 
same way in all of us. 

Emotional manifestations, to which such 
thought patterns belong, are recognizably the 
same all over the earth. We can identify them 
even in animals, and the animals themselves 
understand one another in this respect, even 
though they may belong to different species. 
And what about insects, with their complicated 
symbiotic functions? Most of them do not even 
know their parents and have nobody to teach 
them. Why should one assume, then, that man 
is the only living being deprived of specific 
instincts, or that his psyche is devoid of all 
traces of its evolution? 

Naturally, if you identify the psyche with 
consciousness, you can easily fall into the erro- 
neous idea that man comes into the world with 
a psyche that is empty, and that in later years 
it contains nothing more than what it has 


learned by individual experience. But the 
psyche is more than consciousness. Animals 
have little consciousness, but many impulses 
and reactions that denote the existence of a 
psyche; and primitives do a lot of things whose 
meaning is unknown to them. 

You may ask many civilized people in vain 
for the real meaning of the Christmas tree or 
of the Easter egg. The fact is, they do things 
without knowing why they do them. I am 
inclined to the view that things were generally 
done first and that it was only a long time 
afterward that somebody asked why they were 
done. The medical psychologist is constantly 
confronted with otherwise intelligent patients 
who behave in a peculiar and unpredictable 
way and who have no inkling of what they say 
or do. They are suddenly caught by unreason- 
able moods for which they themselves cannot 

Superficially, such reactions and impulses 
seem to be of an intimately personal nature, 
and so we dismiss them as idiosyncratic be- 
havior. In fact, they are based upon a pre- 
formed and ever-readv instinctive system that is 
characteristic of man. Thought forms, univer- 
sally understandable gestures, and many atti- 
tudes follow a pattern that was established long 
before man developed a reflective consciousness. 

It is even conceivable that the early origins 
of man’s capacity to reflect come from the pain- 
ful consequences of violent emotional clashes. 
Let me take, purely as an illustration of this 
point, the bushman who, in a moment of anger 

and disappointment at his failure to catch any 
fish, strangles his much beloved only son, and 
is then seized with immense regret as he holds 
the little dead body in his arms. Such a man 
might remember this moment of pain for ever. 

We cannot know whether this kind of experi- 
ence was actually the initial cause of the de- 
velopment of human consciotisness. But there 
is no doubt that the shock of a similar emo- 
tional experience is often needed to make 
people wake up and pay attention to what they 
are doing. There is a famous case of a 13 th- 
century Spanish hidalgo, Raimon Lull, who fin- 
ally (after a long chase) succeeded in meeting 
the lady he admired at a secret rendezvous. She 
silently opened her dress and showed him her 
breast, rotten with cancer. The shock changed 
Lull's life; he eventually became an eminent 
theologian and one of the Church’s greatest 
missionaries. In the case of such a sudden 
change one can often prove that an archetype 
has been at work for a long time in the uncon- 
scious, skillfully arranging circumstances that 
will lead to the crisis. 

Such experiences seem to show that arche- 
typal forms are not just static patterns. They 
are dynamic factors that manifest themselves 
in impulses, just as spontaneously as the in- 
stincts. Certain dreams, visions, or thoughts can 
suddenly appear; and however carefully one 
investigates, one cannot find out what causes 
them. This does not mean that they have no 
cause; they certainly have. But it is so remote 
or obscure that one cannot see what it is. In 

Some dreams seem to predict the 
future (perhaps due to unconscious 
knowledge of future possibilities) ; 
thus dreams were long used as 
divination. In Greece the sick 
would ask the healing god Asklepios 
fora dream indicating a cure. Left, 
a relief depicts such a dream cure: 

A snake (the god s symbol) bites a 
man's diseased shoulder and the 
god (far left) heals the shoulder. 
Right, Constantine (an Italian 
painting c. 1 460) dreaming before a 
battle that was to make him Roman 
Emperor. He dreamed of the cross, 
a symbol of Christ, and a voice 
said: "In this sign conquer." He 
took the sign as his emblem, won 
the battle, and was thus 
converted to Christianity 

such a case, one must wait either until the 
dream and its meaning are sufficiently under- 
stood, or until some external event occurs that 
will explain the dream. 

At the moment of the dream, this event may 
still lit' in the future. But just as our conscious 
thoughts often occupy themselves with the 
future and its possibilities, so do the unconscious 
and its dreams. There has long been a general 
belief that the chief f unction of dreams is pro- 
gnostication of the future. In antiquity, and as 
late as the Middle Ages, dreams played their 
part in medical prognosis. I can confirm by a 
modern dream the element of prognosis (or pre- 
cognition) that can be found in an old dream 
quoted by Artemidorus of Daldis, in the second 
century A.n. A man dreamed that he saw his 
father die in the flames of a house on fire. Not 
long afterwards, he himself died in a phlegmon? 
fire, or high fever , which 1 presume was 

It so happened that a colleague of mine was 
mice suffering from a deadly gangrenous fever 

in fact, a phlegmon?. A former patient of 
his, who had no knowledge of the nature of his 
doctor's illness, dreamed that the doctor died 
in a great fire. At that time the doctor had 
just entered a hospital and the disease was only 
beginning. The dreamer knew nothing but the 
bare fact that his doctor was ill and in a 
hospital. Three weeks later, the doctor died. 

As this example shows, dreams may have an 
anticipatory or prognostic aspect, and anybody 
trying to interpret them must take this into 
consideration, especially where an obviously 
meaningful dream does not provide a context 

sufficient to explain it. Such a dream often 
comes right out of the blue, and one wonders 
w hat could have prompted it. Of course, ifone 
knew r its ulterior message, its cause would be 
clear. For it is only our consciousness that does 
not yet know; the unconscious seems already 
informed, and to have come to a conclusion 
that is expressed in the dream. In fact, the un- 
conscious seems to be able to examine and to 
draw conclusions from facts, much as conscious- 
ness does. It can even use certain facts, and 
anticipate their possible results, just because we 
are not conscious of them. 

But as far as one can make out from dreams, 
the unconscious makes its deliberations instinc- 
tively. The distinction is important. Logical 
analysis is the prerogative of consciousness; we 
select with reason and knowledge. The uncon- 
scious, however, seems to be guided chiefly by 
instinctive trends, represented by corresponding 
thought forms that is, by the archetypes. A 
doctor who is asked to describe the course of 
an illness will use such rational concepts as 
"infection" or "fever." The dream is more 
poetic. It presents the diseased body as a man's 
earthly house, and the fever as the fire that is 
destroying it. 

As the above dream shows, the archetypal 
mind has handled the situation in the same way 
as it did in the time of Artemidorus. Something 
that is of a more or less unknown nature has 
been intuitively grasped by the unconscious and 
submitted to an archetypal treatment. This sug- 
gests that, instead of the process of' reasoning 
that conscious thought would have applied, the 
archetypal mind has stepped in and taken over 


In a dream quoted from Artemidorus 
on this page, a burning house 
symbolizes a fever. The human body 
is often represented as a house: 

Left, from an 1 8th -century Hebrew 
encyclopedia, the body and a house 
are compared in detail -turrets as 
ears, windows as eyes, a furnace 
as stomach, etc. Right, in a cartoon 
by James Thurber, a henpecked 
husband sees hts home and his wife 
as the same being 



TS *J*P 

the task of prognostication. The archetypes thus 
have their own initiative and their own specific 
energy. These powers enable them both to pro- 
duce a meaningful interpretation ( in their ow n 
symbolic style) and to interfere in a given situa- 
tion with their own impulses and their own 
thought formations. In this respect, they func- 
tion like complexes; they come and go very 
much as they please, and often they obstruct or 
modify our conscious intentions in an embar- 
rassing way. 

We can perceive the specific energy of 
archetypes when we experience the peculiar 
fascination that accompanies them. They seem 
to hold a special spell. Such a peculiar quality 
is also characteristic of the personal complexes ; 
and just as personal complexes have their indi- 
vidual history, so do social complexes of an 
archetypal character. But while personal com- 
plexes never produce more than a personal bias, 
archetypes create myths, religions, and philoso- 
phies that influence and characterize whole 
nations and epochs of history. We regard the 
personal complexes as compensations for one- 
sided or faulty attitudes of consciousness; in 
the same way, myths of a religious nature can 
be interpreted as a sort of mental therapy for 
the sufferings and anxieties of mankind in 
general hunger, war, disease, old age, death. 

'fhc universal hero myth, for example, 
always refers to a powerful man or god-man 
who vanquishes evil in the form of dragons, 
serpents, monsters, demons, and so on, and who 
liberates his people from destruction and death. 
The narration or ritual repetition of sacred texts 
and ceremonies, and the worship of such a 

figure with dances, music, hymns, prayers, and 
sacrifices, grip the audience w r ith numinous 
emotions (as if with magic spells) and exalt the 
indiv idual to an identification with the hero. 

If we try to see such a situation with the 
eyes of a believer, we can perhaps understand 
how the ordinary man can be liberated from 
his personal impotence and misery and en- 
dowed fat least temporarily) with an almost 
superhuman quality. Often enough such a con- 
viction will sustain him for a long time and 
give a certain style to his life. It may even set 
the tone of a whole society. A remarkable 
instance of this can be found in the Eleusinian 
mysteries, w hich were finally suppressed at the 
beginning of the seventh century of the Chris- 
tian era. They expressed, together with the 
Delphic oracle, the essence and spirit of ancient 
(ireece. On a much greater scale, the Christian 
era itself' owes its name and significance to the 
antique mystery of the god-man, w hich has its 
roots in the archetypal Osiris-Horus myth of 
ancient Egypt. 

It is commonly assumed that on some given 
occasion in prehistoric times, the basic* mytho- 
logical ideas were “invented" by a clever old 
philosopher or prophet, and ever afterward 
“believed" by a credulous and uncritical 
people. It is said that stories told by a power- 
seeking priesthood are not “true," but merely 
"wishful thinking." But the very word “invent" 
is derived from the Latin invenire , and means 
to "find” and hence to find something by "seek- 
ing" it. In the latter case the word itself' hints 
at some foreknow ledge of what you are going 
to find. 

The energy of archetypes can be 
focused (through rituals and other 
appeals to mass emotion) to move 
people to collective action. The 
Nazis knew this, and used versions 
of Teutonic myths to help rally 
the country to their cause. Far right, 
a propaganda painting of Hitler as 
a heroic crusader; right, a solstice 
festival celebrated in summer by 
the Hitler Youth, a revival of an 
ancient pagan festival 

Top, a child's painting of Christmas 
includes the familiar tree decorated 
with candles. The evergreen tree is 
connected with Christ through the 
symbolism of the winter solstice 
and the "new year" (the new aeon of 
Christianity). There are many links 
between Christ and the tree symbol : 
The cross is often seen as a tree, 
as in a medieval Italian fresco, 
left, of Christ crucified on the tree 
of knowledge. Candles in Christian 
ceremonies symbolize divine light, as 
in the Swedish festival of St. Lucia 
(above), where girls wear crowns of 
burning candles. 


Let me go back to the strange ideas con- 
tained in the dreams of the little girl. It seems 
unlikely that she sought them out, since she was 
surprised to find them. They occurred to her 
rather as peculiar and unexpected stories, which 
seemed noteworthy enough to be given to her 
father as a Christmas present. In doing so, how- 
ever, she lifted them up into the sphere of our 
still living Christian mystery — the birth of our 
Lord, mixed with the secret of the evergreen 
tree that carries the new-born Light. (This is 
the reference of the fifth dream.) 

Although there is ample historical evidence 
for the symbolic relation between Christ and 
the tree symbol, the little girl’s parents would 
have been gravely embarrassed had they been 
asked to explain exactly what they meant by 
decorating a tree with burning candles to cele- 
brate the nativity of Christ. “Oh, it’s just a 
Christmas custom!” they would have said. A 
serious answer would require a far-reaching 
dissertation about the antique symbolism of the 
dying god, and its relation to the cult of the 
Great Mother and her symbol, the tree — to 
mention only one aspect of this complicated 
problem. ■. / 

The further we delve into the origins of a 
“collective image” (or, to express it in ecclesi- 
astical language, of a dogma), the more we un- 
cover a seemingly unending web of archetypal 
patterns that, before modern times, were never 
the object of conscious reflection. Thus, para- 
doxically enough, we know more about mytho- 
logical symbolism than did any generation 
before our own. The fact is that in former times 
men did not reflect upon their symbols; they 
lived them and were unconsciously animated by 
their meaning. 

I will illustrate this by an experience I once 
had with the primitives of Mount Elgon in 
Africa. Every morning at dawn, they leave their 
huts and breathe or spit into their hands, which 
they then stretch out to the first rays of the sun, 
as if they were offering either their breath or 
their spittle to the rising god — to mungu. (This 
Swahili word, which they used in explaining 
the ritual act, is derived from a Polynesian root 
equivalent to mana or mulungu. These and 

similar terms designate a “power” of extra- 
ordinary efficiency and pervasiveness, which we 
should call divine. Thus the word mungu is 
their equivalent for Allah or God.) When I 
asked them what they meant by this act, or 
why they did it, they were completely baffled. 
They could only say: “We have always done 
it. It has always been done when the sun rises.” 
They laughed at the obvious conclusion that 
the sun is mungu. The sun indeed is not mungu 
when it is above the horizon ; mungu is the actual 
moment of the sunrise. 

What they were doing was obvious to me, 
but not to them; they just did it, never reflect- 
ing on what they did. They were consequently 
unable to explain themselves. I concluded that 
they were offering their souls to mungu , be- 
cause the breath (of life) and the spittle mean 
“soul-substance.” To breathe or spit upon 
something conveys a “magical” effect, as, for 
instance, when Christ used spittle to cure the 
blind, or where a son inhales his dying father’s 
last breath in order to take over the father’s 
soul. It is most unlikely that these Africans ever, 
even in the remote past, knew any more about 
the meaning of their ceremony. In fact, their 
ancestors probably knew even less, because they 
were even more profoundly unconscious of their 
motives and thought less about their doings.. 

Goethe’s Faust aptly says: “/m Anfang war 
die Tat [In the beginning was the deed].” 
“Deeds” were never invented, they were done; 
thoughts, on the other hand, are a relatively 
late discovery of man. First he was moved to 
deeds by unconscious factors; it was only a long 
time afterward that he began to reflect upon 
the causes that had moved him; and it took 
him a very long time indeed to arrive at the 
preposterous idea that he must have moved 
himself — his mind being unable to identify any 
other motivating force than his own. 

We should laugh at the idea of a plant or an 
animal inventing itself, yet there are many 
people who believe that the psyche or mind 
invented itself and thus was the creator of its 
own existence. As a matter of fact, the mind 
has grown to its present state of consciousness 
as an acorn grows into an oak or as saurians 


developed into mammals. As it has for so long 
been developing, so it still develops, and thus 
we are moved by forces from within as well as 
by stimuli from without. 

These inner motives spring from a deep 
source that is not made by consciousness and is 
not under its control. In the mythology of 
earlier times, these forces were called mana , or 
spirits, demons, and gods. They are as active 
today as they ever were. If they conform to our 
wishes, we call them happy hunches or impulses 
and pat ourselves on the back for being smart 
fellows. If they go against us, then we say that 
it is just bad luck, or that certain people are 
against us, or that the cause of our misfortunes 
must be pathological. The one thing we refuse 
to admit is that we are dependent upon 
“powers” that are beyond our control. 

It is true, however, that in recent times civil- 
ized man has acquired a certain amount of will 
power, which he can apply where he pleases. 
He has learned to do his work efficiently with- 
out having recourse to chanting and drumming 
to hypnotize him into the state of doing. He 
can even dispense with a daily prayer for divine 
aid. He can carry out what he proposes to do, 
and he can apparently translate his ideas into 

action without a hitch, whereas the primitive 
seems to be hampered at each step by fears, 
superstitions, and other unseen obstacles to 
action. The motto “Where there’s a will, there’s 
a way” is the superstition of modern man. 

Yet in order to sustain his creed, contem- 
porary man pays the price in a remarkable lack 
of introspection. He is blind to the fact that, 
with all his rationality and efficiency, he is 
possessed by “powers” that are beyond his con- 
trol. His gods and demons have not disappeared 
at all; they have merely got new names. They 
keep him on the run with restlessness, vague 
apprehensions, psychological complications, an 
insatiable need for pills, alcohol, tobacco, food 
and, above all, a large array of neuroses. 

Two examples of belief in the 
"magical" quality of breath: Below 
left, a Zulu witch doctor cures a 
patient by blowing into his ear 
through a cow's horn (to drive the 
spirits out); below, a medieval 
painting of the creation depicts 
God breathing life into Adam. Right, 
in a 1 3th-century Italian painting, 

Christ heals a blind man with 
spittle — which, like breath, has 
long been believed to have a life- 
giving ability. 

The soul of man 

What we call civilized consciousness has steadily 
separated itself from the basic instincts. But 
these instincts have not disappeared. They have 
merely lost their contact with our consciousness 
and are thus forced to assert themselves in an 
indirect fashion. This may be by means of 
physical symptoms in the case of a neurosis, or 
by means of incidents of various kinds, such as 
unaccountable moods, unexpected forgetful- 
ness, or mistakes in speech. 

A man likes to believe that he is the master 
of his soul. But as long as he is unable to control 
his moods and emotions, or to be conscious of 
the myriad secret ways in which unconscious 
factors insinuate themselves into his arrange- 
ments and decisions, he is certainly not his own 
master. These unconscious factors owe their 
existence to the autonomy of the archetypes. 
Modern man protects himself against seeing his 
own split state by a system of compartments. 
Certain areas of outer life and of his own 
behavior are kept, as it were, in separate 

drawers and are never confronted with one 

As an example of this so-called compartment 
psychology, 1 remember the case of an alcoholic 
who had come under the laudable influence of 
a certain religious movement, and, fascinated 
by its enthusiasm, had forgotten that he needed 
a drink. He was obviously and miraculously 
cured by Jesus, and he was correspondingly 
displayed as a witness to divine grace or to the 
efficiency of the said religious organization. But 
after a few weeks of public confessions, the 
novelty began to pale and some alcoholic re- 
freshment seemed to be indicated, and so he 
drank again. But this time the helpful organ- 
ization came to the conclusion that the case was 
“pathological" and obviously not suitable for 
an interv ention by Jesus, so they put him into 
a clinic to let the doctor do better than the 
divine healer. 

This is an aspect of the modern “cultural" 
mind that is worth looking into. It shows an 

8 ' 

alarming degree of dissociation and psycho- 
logical confusion. 

If, for a moment, we regard mankind as one 
individual, we see that the human race is like 
a person carried away by unconscious powers ; 
and the human race also likes to keep certain 
problems tucked away in separate drawers. But 
this is why we should give a great deal of con- 
sideration to what we are doing, for mankind 
is now threatened by self-created and deadly 
dangers that are growing beyond our control. 
Our world is, so to speak, dissociated like a 
neurotic, with the Iron Curtain marking the 
symbolic line of division. Western man, becom- 
ing aware of the aggressive will to power of 
the East, sees himself forced to take extraordin- 
ary measures of defense, at the same time as 
he prides himself on his virtue and good 

What he fails to see is that it is his own vices, 
which he has covered up by good international 
manners, that are thrown back in his face by 
the communist world, shamelessly and meth- 
odically. What the West has tolerated, but 
secretly and with a slight sense of shame (the 
diplomatic lie, systematic deception, veiled 
threats), comes back into the open and in full 
measure from the East and ties us up in neu- 
rotic knots. It is the face of his own evil shadow 
that grins at Western man from the other side 
of the Iron Curtain. 

It is this state of affairs that explains the 
peculiar feeling of helplessness of so many 
people in Western societies. They have begun 
to realize that the difficulties confronting us are 
moral problems, and that the attempts to 
answer them by a policy of piling up nuclear 
arms or by economic “competition 5 5 is achiev- 
ing little, for it cuts both ways. Many of us 
now understand that moral and mental means 
would be more efficient, since they could pro- 
vide us with psychic immunity against the ever- 
increasing infection. 

'Our world is dissociated like a 
neurotic.” Left, the Berlin Wall. 

But all such attempts have proved singularly 
ineffective, and will do so as long as we try to 
convince ourselves and the world that it is only 
they (i.e. our opponents) who are wrong. It 
would be much more to the point for us to 
make a serious attempt to recognize our own 
shadow and its nefarious doings. If we could 
see our shadow (the dark side of our nature), 
we should be immune to any moral and mental 
infection and insinuation. As matters now 
stand, we lay ourselves open to every infection, 
because we are really doing practically the 
same thing as they. Only we have the addi- 
tional disadvantage that we neither see nor 
want to understand what we ourselves are 
doing, under the cover of good manners. 

The communist world, it may be noted, has 
one big myth (which we call an illusion, in 
the vain hope that our superior judgment will 
make it disappear). It is the time-hallowed 
archetypal dream of a Golden Age (or Para- 
dise), where everything is provided in abund- 
ance for everyone, and a great, just, and wise 
chief rules over a human kindergarten. This 
powerful archetype in its infantile form has 
gripped them, but it will never disappear from 
the world at the mere sight of our superior 
point of view. We even support it by our own 
childishness, for our Western civilization is in 
the grip of the same mythology. Unconsciously, 
we cherish the same prejudices, hopes, and 
expectations. We too believe in the welfare 
state, in universal peace, in the equality of man, 
in his eternal human rights, in justice, truth, 
and (do not say it too loudly) in the Kingdom 
of God on Earth. 

The sad truth is that man’s real life consists 
of a complex of inexorable opposites — day and 
night, birth and death, happiness and misery, 
good and evil. We are not even sure that one 
will prevail against the other, that good will 
overcome evil, or joy defeat pain. Life is a 
battleground. It always has been, and always 
will be; and if it were not so, existence would 
come to an end. 

It was precisely this conflict within man that 
led the early Christians to expect and hope for 
an early end to this world, or the Buddhists to 


Every society has its idea of the 
archetypal paradise or golden age 
that, it is believed, once existed 
and will exist again. Left, a 1 9th- 
century American painting embodies 
the idea of a past utopia: It shows 
William Penn's treaty with the 
Indians in 1 682 occurring in an ideal 
setting where all is harmony and 
peace. Below left, a reflection of 
the idea of a utopia yet to come: 

A poster in a Moscow park shows 
Lenin leading the Russian people 
toward the future 

Above, the Garden of Eden, depicted 
as a walled (and womb-like) garden 
in a 1 5th -century «French painting 
and showing the expulsion of Adam 
and Eve. Right, a "golden age'' of 
primitive naturalness is pictured 
in a 1 6th-century painting by 
Cranach (entitled Earthly Paradise). 
Far right, the 1 6th-century Flemish 
artist Brueghel's Land of Cokaygne, 
a mythical land of sensual delights 
and easy living*(stories of which 
were widely popular in medieval 
Europe, especially among the hard- 
working peasants and serfs). 

reject all earthly desires and aspirations. These 
basic answers would be frankly suicidal if they 
were not linked up with peculiar mental and 
moral ideas and practices that constitute the 
bulk of both religions and that, to a certain 
extent, modify their radical denial of the world. 

I stress this point because, in our time, there 
are millions of people who have lost faith in 
any kind of religion. Such people do not under- 
stand their religion any longer. While life runs 
smoothly without religion, the loss remains as 
good as unnoticed. But when suffering comes, 
it is another matter. That is when people begin 
to seek a way out and to reflect about the 
meaning of life and its bewildering and painful 

It is significant that the psychological doctor 
(within my experience) is consulted more by 
Jews and Protestants than by Catholics. This 
might be expected, for the Catholic Church 
still feels responsible for the cur a ammarum 
(the care and welfare of souls). But in this 
scientific age, the psychiatrist is apt to be asked 
the questions that once belonged in the domain 
of the theologian. People feel that it makes, or 
would make, a great difference if only they had 
a positive belief in a meaningful way oflife or 
in God and immortality. The specter of ap- 
proaching death often gives a powerful incen- 
tive to such thoughts. From time immemorial, 
men have had ideas about a Supreme Being 
(one or several) and about the Land of the 

Hereafter. Only today do they think they can 
do without such ideas. 

Because we cannot discover God's throne in 
the sky with a radio telescope or establish (for 
certain) that a beloved father or mother is still 
about in a more or less corporeal form, people 
assume that such ideas are “not true.” I 
would rather say that they are not “true” 
enough , for these are conceptions of a kind 
that have accompanied human life from pre- 
historic times, and that still break through 
into consciousness at any provocation. 

Modern man may assert that he can 
dispense with them, and he may bolster his 
opinion by insisting that there is no scientific 
evidence of their truth. Or he may even 
regret the loss of his convictions. But since we 
are dealing with invisible and unknowable 
things (for God is beyond human understand- 
ing, and there is no means of proving immor- 
tality), why should we bother about evidence? 
Even if we did not know by reason our need 
for salt in our food, we should nonetheless 
profit from its use. We might argue that the 
use of salt is a mere illusion of taste or a 
superstition; but it would still contribute to 
our well-being. Why, then, should we deprive 
ourselves of views that would prove helpful in 
crises and would give a meaning to our 

And how do we know that such ideas ar£ 
not true? Many people would agree with me 


if I stated flatly that such ideas are probably 
illusions. What they fail to realize is that the 
denial is as impossible to "‘prove" as the 
assertion of religious belief. We are entirely 
free to choose which point of view we take; 
it will in any case be an arbitrary decision. 

There is, however, a strong empirical reason 
why we should cultivate thoughts that can 
never be proved. It is that they are known to 
be useful. Man positively needs general ideas 
and convictions that will give a meaning to 
his life and enable him to find a place for 
himself in the universe. He can stand the most 
incredible hardships when he is convinced that 
they make sense; he is crushed when, on top 
of all his misfortunes, he has to admit that he 
is taking part in a “tale told by an idiot/' 

It is the role of religious symbols to give a 
meaning to the life of man. The Pueblo 
Indians believe that they are the sons of 
Father Sun, and this belief endows their life 
with a perspective (and a goal) that goes far 
beyond their limited existence. It gives them 
ample space for the unfolding of personality 
and permits them a full life as complete 
persons. Their plight is infinitely more satis- 
factory than that of a man in our own civiliza- 
tion who knows that he is (and will remain) 
nothing more than an underdog with no inner 
meaning to his life. 

A sense of a wider meaning to one's exist- 
ence is what raises a man beyond mere getting 
and spending. If he lacks this sense, he is 
lost and miserable. Had St. Paul been con- 
vinced that he was nothing more than a 

Left, the burial coffin of a South 
American Cayapas Indian. The dead 
man is provided with food and 
clothing for his life after death 
Religious symbols and beliefs of every 
kind give meaning to men's lives 
ancient peoples grieved over death 
(right, an Egyptian figurine 
representing mourning, which was 
found in a tomb) ; yet their beliefs 
made them also think of death as a 
positive transformation. 

wandering tent-maker he certainly would 
not have been the man he was. His real 
and meaningful life lay in the inner certainty 
that he was the messenger of the Lord. One 
may accuse him of suffering from megalo- 
mania, but this opinion pales before the testi- 
mony of history and the judgment of sub- 
sequent generations. The myth that took 
possession of him made him something greater 
than a mere craftsman. 

Such a myth, however, consists of symbols 
that have not been invented consciously. They 
have happened. It was not the man Jesus 
who created the myth of the god-man. It 
existed for many centuries before his birth. 
He himself was seized by this symbolic idea, 
which, as St. Mark tells us, lifted him out of 
the narrow life of the Nazarene carpenter. 

Myths go back to the primitive storyteller 
and his dreams, to men moved by the stirring 
of their fantasies. These people were not very 
different from those whom later generations 
have called poets or philosophers. Primitive 
storytellers did not concern themselves with 
the origin of their fantasies; it was very muc h 
later that people began to wonder where a 
story originated. Yet, centuries ago, in what 
we now call ‘'ancient" Greece, men's minds 
were advanced enough to surmise that the 
tales of the gods were nothing but archaic 
and exaggerated traditions of long-buried kings 
or chieftains. Men already took the view that 
the myth was too improbable to mean what it 
said. They therefore tried to reduce it to a 
generally understandable form. 

In more recent times, we have seen the same 
thing happen with dream symbolism. We 
became aware, in the years when psychology 
was in its infancy, that dreams had some 
importance. But just as the Greeks persuaded 
themselves that their myths were merely elab- 
orations of rational or “normal" history, so 
some of the pioneers of psychology came to the 
conclusion that dreams did not mean what they 
appeared to mean. The images or symbols that 
they presented were dismissed as bizarre forms 
in which repressed contents of the psyche 
appeared to the conscious mind. It thus came 
to be taken for granted that a dream meant 
something other than its obvious statement. 

I have already described my disagreement 
with this idea — a disagreement that led me 
to study the form as well as the content of 
dreams. Why should they mean something 
different from their contents? Is there any- 
thing in nature that is other than it is? The 
dream is a normal and natural phenomenon, 
and it does not mean something it is not. The 
Talmud even says: "The dream is its own 
interpretation/’ The confusion arises because 
the dream’s contents are symbolic and thus 
have more than one meaning. The symbols 
point in different directions from those we 
apprehend with the conscious mind ; and there- 
fore they relate to something either unconscious 
or at least not entirely conscious. 

Above, a child's drawing of a tree 
(with the sun above it) A tree is 
one of the best examples of a motif 
that often appears in dreams (and 
elsewhere) and that can have an 
incredible variety of meanings. It 
might symbolize evolution, physical 
growth, or psychological maturation; 
it might symbolize sacrifice or 
death (Christ's crucifixion on the 
tree); it might be a phallic symbol; 
it might be a great deal more And 
such other common dream motifs 
as the cross (right) or the lingam 
(far right) can also have a vast 
array of symbolic meanings. 


To the scientific mind, such phenomena as 
symbolic ideas are a nuisance because they 
cannot be formulated in a way that is satis- 
factory to intellect and logic. They are by no 
means the only case of this kind in psychology. 
The trouble begins with the phenomenon of 
“affect'' or emotion, which evades all the 
attempts of the psychologist to pin it down 
with a final definition. The cause of the dilli- 
culty is the same in both cases — the interven- 
tion of the unconscious. 

I know enough of the scientific point of 
view to understand that it is most annoying to 
have to deal with facts that cannot be com- 
pletely or adequately grasped. The trouble w ith 
these phenomena is that the facts are un- 
deniable and yet cannot be formulated in 
intellectual terms. For this one would have to be 
able to comprehend life itself, for it is life that 
produces emotions and symbolic ideas. 

The academic psychologist is perfectly free 
to dismiss the phenomenon of emotion or the 
concept of the unconscious (or both ) from his 
consideration. Yet they remain facts to which 
the medical psychologist at least has to pay 
due attention; for emotional conflicts and the 
intervention of the unconscious are the classical 
features of his science. II he treats a patient at 
all, he comes up against these irrationalities as 

hard facts, irrespective of his ability to formu- 
late them in intellectual terms, li is. therefore, 
quite natural that people who have not had the 
medical psychologist's experience find it diffi- 
cult to follow what happens when psychology 
ceases to be a tranquil pursuit for the scientist 
in his laboratory and becomes an active part 
of the adventure of real life. Target practice 
on a shooting range is far from the battlefield; 
the doctor has to deal with casualties in a 
genuine war. He must concern himself with 
psychic realities, even if' he cannot embody 
them in scientific definitions. That is why no 
textbook can teach psychology; one learns only 
by actual experience. 

YVe can see this point clearly when we 
examine certain well-known symbols: 

The cross in the Christian religion, for in- 
stance, is a meaningful symbol that expresses 
a multitude of aspects, ideas, and emotions; 
but a cross after a name on a list simply indi- 
cates that the individual is dead. The phallus 
functions as an all-embracing symbol in the 
Hindu religion, but if' a street urchin draw's 
one on a wall, it just reflects an interest in his 
penis. Because infantile and adolescent fan- 
tasies often continue far into adult life, many 
dreams occur in which there are unmistakable 
sexual allusions. It would be absurd to under- 

9 1 

stand them as anything else. But when a mason 
speaks of monks and nuns to be laid upon 
each other, or an electrician of male plugs and 
female sockets, it would be ludicrous to 
suppose that he is indulging in glowing adoles- 
cent fantasies. He is simply using colorful 
descriptive names for his materials. When an 
educated Hindu talks to you about the lin- 
gam (the phallus that represents the god Siva 
in Hindu mythology), you will hear things 
we Westerners would never connect with the 
penis. The lingam is certainly not an obscene 
allusion; nor is the cross merely a sign of 
death. Much depends upon the maturity of 
the dreamer who produces such an image. 

The interpretation of dreams and symbols 
demands intelligence. It cannot be turned into 
a mechanical system and then crammed into 
unimaginative brains. It demands both an 
increasing knowledge of the dreamer’s indi- 
viduality and an increasing self-awareness 
on the part of the interpreter. No experienced 
worker in this field will deny that there are 
rules of thumb that can prove helpful, but they 
must be applied with prudence and intelligence. 
One may follow all the right rules and yet get 
bogged down in the most appalling nonsense, 
simply by overlooking a seemingly unimportant 
detail that a better intelligence would not have 
missed. Even a man of high intellect can go 
badly astray for lack of intuition or feeling. 

When we attempt to understand symbols, 
we are not only confronted with the symbol 
itself, but we are brought up against the 
wholeness of the symbol-producing individual. 
This includes a study of his cultural back- 
ground, and in the process one fills in many 
gaps in one’s own education. I have made it 
a rule myself to consider every case as an 
entirely new proposition about which I do 
not even know the ABC. Routine responses 
may be practical and useful while one is deal- 
ing with the surface, but as soon as one gets 
in touch with the vital problems, life itself 
takes over and even the most brilliant theoreti- 
cal premises become ineffectual words. 

Imagination and intuition are vital to our 
understanding. And though the usual popular 

opinion is that they are chiefly valuable to 
poets and artists (that in “sensible” matters one 
should mistrust them), they are in fact equally 
vital in all the higher grades of science. Here 
they play an increasingly important role, which 
supplements that of the “rational” intellect and 
its application to a specific problem. Even 
physics, the strictest of all applied sciences, 
depends to an astonishing degree upon intui- 
tion, which works by way of the unconscious 
(although it is possible to demonstrate after- 
ward the logical procedures that could have 
led one to the same result as intuition). 

Intuition is almost indispensable in the in- 
terpretation of symbols, and it can often ensure 
that they are immediately understood by the 
dreamer. But while such a lucky hunch may be 
subjectively convincing, it can also be rather 
dangerous. It can so easily lead to a false 
feeling of security. It may, for instance, seduce 
both the interpreter and the dreamer into 
continuing a cosy and relatively easy relation, 
which may end in a sort of shared dream. 
The safe basis of real intellectual knowledge 
and moral understanding gets lost if one is 
content with the vague satisfaction of having 
understood by “hunch.” One can explain and 
know only if one has reduced intuitions to an 
exact knowledge of facts and their logical 

An honest investigator will have to admit 
that he cannot always do this, but it would 
be dishonest not to keep it always in mind. 
Even a scientist is a human being. So it is 
natural for him, like others, to hate the things 
he cannot explain. It is a common illusion to 
believe that what we know today is all we 
ever can know. Nothing is more vulnerable 
than scientific theory, which is an ephemeral 
attempt to explain facts and not an everlasting 
truth in itself. 

Ancient mythological beings are 
now curiosities in museums (right). 

But the archetypes they expressed 
have not lost their power to affect 
men's minds. Perhaps the monsters 
of modern "horror” films (far right) 
are distorted versions of archetypes 
that will no longer be repressed. 

9 2 

The role of symbols 

When the medical psychologist takes an inter- 
est in symbols, he is primarily concerned with 
“natural" symbols, as distinct from “cultural" 
symbols. The former are derived from the 
unconscious contents of the psyche, and they 
therefore represent an enormous number of 
variations on the essential archetypal images. 
In many cases they can still be traced back 

I to their archaic roots - i.e. to ideas and images 
that we meet in the most ancient records and 
in primitive societies. The cultural symbols, on 
the other hand, are those that have been 
used to express “eternal truths," and that are 
still used in many religions. They have gone 
through many transformations and even a long 
process of more or less conscious development, 
and have thus become collective images 
accepted by civilized societies. 

Such cultural symbols nevertheless retain 
much of their original numinosity or “spell.'' 
One is aware that they can evoke a deep emo- 
tional response in some individuals, and this 
psychic change makes them function in much 
the same way as prejudices. They are a factor 
with which the psychologist must reckon; it is 
folly to dismiss them because, in rational terms, 
they seem to be absurd or irrelevant. They are 
important constituents of our mental make-up 

and vital forces in the building up of human 
society; and they cannot be eradicated without 
serious loss. Where they are repressed or neg- 
lected, their specific energy disappears into the 
unconscious with unaccountable consequences. 
The psychic energy that appears to have been 
lost in this way in fact serves to revive and in- 
tensify whatever is uppermost in the uncon- 
scious-tendencies, perhaps, that have hitherto 
had no chance to express themselves or at least 
have not been allowed an uninhibited existence 
in our consciousness. 

Such tendencies form an ever-present and 
potentially destructive “shadow" to our con- 
scious mind. Even tendencies that might in 
some circumstances be able to exert a beneficial 
influence are transformed into demons when 
they are repressed. This is why many well- 
meaning people are understandably afraid of 
the unconscious, and incidentally ofpsychology. 

Our times have demonstrated what it means 
for the gates of the underworld to be opened. 
Things whose enormity nobody could have 
imagined in the idyllic harmlessness of the first 
decade of our century have happened and have 
turned our world upside down. Ever since, the 
world has remained in a state of schizophrenia. 
Not only has civilized Germany disgorged its 


terrible primitivity, but Russia is also ruled by 
it, and Africa has been set on fire. No wonder 
that the Western world feels uneasy. 

Modern man does not understand how much 
his “rationalism" (which has destroyed his capa- 
city to respond to numinous symbols and ideas) 
has put him at the mercy of the psychic 
“underworld." He has freed himself from 
“superstition" (or so he believes), but in the pro- 
cess he has lost his spiritual values to a positively 
dangerous degree. His moral and spiritual tradi- 
tion has disintegrated, and he is now paying 
the price for this break-up in world- wide dis- 
orientation and dissociation. 

Anthropologists have often described what 
happens to a primitive society when its spiritual 
values are exposed to the impact of modern 
civilization. Its people lose the meaning of their 
lives, theirsocial organization disintegrates, and 
they themselves morally decay. We are now in 
the same condition. But we have never really 
understood what we have lost, for our spiritual 
leaders unfortunately were more interested in 
protecting their institutions than in understand- 
ing the mystery that symbols present. In my 
opinion, faith does not exclude thought (which 

is man's strongest weapon), but unfortunately 
many believers seem to be so afraid of science 
(and incidentally of psychology that they turn 
a blind eye to the numinous psychic powers 
that forever control man's fate. We have strip- 
ped all things of their mystery and numinosity ; 
nothing is holy any longer. 

In earlier ages, as instinctive concepts welled 
up in the mind of man, his conscious mind 
could no doubt integrate them into a coherent 
psychic pattern. But the "civilized" man is no 
longer able to do this. His “advanced" con- 
sciousness has deprived itself of the means by 
which the auxiliary contributions of the in- 
stincts and the unconscious can be assimilated. 
These organs of assimilation and integration 
were numinous symbols, held holy by common 

Today, for instance, we talk of “matter." We 
describe its physical properties. We conduct 
laboratory experiments to demonstrate some of 
its aspects. But the word "matter" remains a 
dry, inhuman, and purely intellectual concept, 
without any psychic significance for us. How 
different was the former image of matter the 
Great Mother that could encompass and ex- 

press the profound emotional meaning of 
Mother Earth. In the same way, what was the 
spirit is now identified with intellect and thus 
ceases to be the Father of All. It has degen- 
erated to the limited ego-thoughts of man; the 
immense emotional energy expressed in the 
image of “our Father” vanishes into the sand 
of an intellectual desert. 

These two archetypal principles lie at the 
foundation of the contrasting systems of East 
and West. The masses and their leaders do not 
realize, however, that there is no substantial 
difference between calling the world principle 
male and a father (spirit), as the West does, or 
female and a mother (matter), as the Com- 
munists do. Essentially, we know as little of the 
one as of the other. In earlier times, these prin- 
ciples were worshiped in all sorts of rituals, 
which at least showed the psychic significance 
they held for man. But now they have become 
mere abstract concepts. 

As scientific understanding has grown, so our 
world has become dehumanized. Man feels him- 
self isolated in the cosmos, because he is no 
longer involved in nature and has lost his emo- 
tional “unconscious identity” with natural phe- 
nomena. These have slowly lost their symbolic 
implications. Thunder is no longer the voice of 
an angry god, nor is lightning his avenging 
missile. No river contains a spirit, no tree is 
the life principle of a man, no snake the embodi- 
ment of wisdom, no mountain cave the home 
of a great demon. No voices now speak to 
man from stones, plants, and animals, nor does 
he speak to them believing they can hear. His 
contact with nature has gone, and with it has 
gone the profound emotional energy that this 
symbolic connection supplied. 

Repressed unconscious contents can 
erupt destructively in the form of 
negative emotions -as in World War 
II Far left, Jewish prisoners in 
Warsaw after the 1 943 uprising; 
left, footwear of the dead stacked 
at Auschwitz 

Right, Australian aborigines who 
have disintegrated since they lost 
their religious beliefs through 
contact with civilization This tribe 
now numbers only a few hundred. 

This enormous loss is compensated for by 
the symbols of our dreams. They bring up our 
original nature its instincts and peculiar 
thinking. Unfortunately, however, they express 
their contents in the language of nature, which 
is strange and incomprehensible to us. It there- 
fore confronts us with the task of translating it 
into the rational words and concepts of modern 
speech, which has liberated itself from its primi- 
tive encumbrances notably from its mystical 
participation with the things it describes. Now- 
adays, when we talk of ghosts and other numi- 
nous figures, we are no longer conjuring them 
up. The power as well as the glory is drained 
out of such once-potcnt words. We have ceased 
to believe in magic formulas; not many taboos 
and similar restrictions arc left; and our world 
seems to be disinfected of' all such "supersti- 
tious" minima as “witches, warlocks, and wor- 
ricows,” to say nothing ofwcrewolves, vampires, 
bush souls, and all the other bizarre beings that 
populated the primeval forest. 

To be more accurate, the surface of our 
world seems to be cleansed of all superstitious 
and irrational elements. Whether, however, the 
real inner human world (not our wish-fulfilling 


fiction about it) is also freed from primitivity 
is another question. Is the number 13 not still 
taboo for many people? Are there not still 
many individuals possessed by irrational preju- 
dices, projections, and childish illusions? A rea- 
listic picture of the human mind reveals many 
such primitive traits and survivals, which are 
still playing their roles just as if nothing had 
happened during the last 500 years. 

It is essential to appreciate this point. Modern 
man is in fact a curious mixture of characteris- 
tics acquired over the long ages of his mental 
development. This mixed-up being is the man 
and his symbols that we have to deal with, and 
we must scrutinize his mental products very 
carefully indeed. Skepticism and scientific con- 
viction exist in him side by side with old-fash- 
ioned prejudices, outdated habits of thought 
and feeling, obstinate misinterpretations, and 
blind ignorance. 

Such are the contemporary human beings 
who produce the symbols we psychologists in- 
vestigate. In order to explain these symbols 
and their meaning, it is vital to learn whether 
their representations are related to purely per- 
sonal experience, or whether they have been 
chosen by a dream for its particular purpose 
from a store of general conscious knowledge. 

Take, for instance, a dream in which the 
number 13 occurs. The question is whether the 
dreamer himself habitually believes in the un- 
lucky quality of the number, or whether the 
dream merely alludes to people who still in- 
dulge in such superstitions. The answer makes 
a great difference to the interpretation. In the 
former case, you have to reckon with the fact 
that the individual is still under the spell of the 
unlucky 13, and therefore will feel most un- 
comfortable in Room 13 in a hotel or sitting 
at a table with 13 people. In the latter case, 13 
may not mean any more than a discourteous or 
abusive remark. The “superstitious” dreamer 
still feels the “spell” of 13 ; the more “rational” 
dreamer has stripped 13 of its original emo- 
tional overtones. 

This argument illustrates the way in which 
archetypes appear in practical experience : 
They are, at the same time, both images and 

emotions. One can speak of an archetype only 
when these two aspects are simultaneous. When 
there is merely the image, then there is simply 
a word-picture of little consequence. But by 
being charged with emotion, the image gains 
numinosity (or psychic energy) ; it becomes 
dynamic, and consequences of some kind must 
flow from it. 

I am aware that it is difficult to grasp this 
concept, because I am trying to use words to 
describe something whose very nature makes it 
incapable of precise definition. But since so 
many people have chosen to treat archetypes 
as if they were part of a mechanical system 
that can be learned by rote, it is essential to 
insist that they are not mere names, or even 
philosophical concepts. They are pieces of life 
itself— images that are integrally connected to 
the living individual by the bridge of the 
emotions. That is why it is impossible to give 
an arbitrary (or universal) interpretation of any 
archetype. It must be explained in the manner 
indicated by the whole life-situation of the par- 
ticular individual to whom it relates. 

Thus, in the case of a devout Christian, the 
symbol of the cross can be interpreted only in 
its Christian context — unless the dream pro- 
duces a very strong reason to look beyond it. 
Even then, the specific Christian meaning 
should be kept in mind. But one cannot say 
that, at all times and in all circumstances, the 
symbol of the cross has the same meaning. If 
that were so, it would be stripped of its numin- 
osity, lose its vitality, and become a mere word. 

Those who do not realize the special feeling 
tone of the archetype end with nothing more 
than a jumble of mythological concepts, which 
can be strung together to show that everything 
means anything — or nothing at all. All the 
corpses in the world are chemically identical, 
but living individuals are not. Archetypes come 
to life only when one patiently tries to discover 
why and in what fashion they are meaningful 
to a living individual. 

The mere use of words is futile when you do 
not know what they stand for. This is particu- 
larly true in psychology, where we speak ofarche- 
types such as the anima and animus, the wise 


The ancient Chinese connected the 
moon with the goddess K wan -Yin 
(pictured above). Other societies 
have personified the moon as a 
divinity And though modern space 
flight has proved that the moon is 
only a cratered ball of dirt (left), 
we have retained something of the 
archetypal attitude in our familiar 
association of the moon with love 
and romance. 


In a child's unconscious we can see 
the power (and universality) of 
archetypal symbols. A seven-year- 
old's painting (left) —a huge sun 
driving away black birds, demons 
of the night — has the flavor of a 
true myth Children at play (right) 
spontaneously dance in as natural 
a form of self-expression as the 
ceremonial dances of primitives. 
Ancient folklore still exists in 
children's "ritual'' beliefs: For 
instance, children all over Britain 
(and elsewhere) believe it is lucky 
to see a white horse — which is a 
well-known symbol of life A Celtic 
goddess of creativity, Epona, shown 
(far right) riding a horse, was often 
personified as a white mare. 

man, the Great Mother, and so on. You can 
know all about the saints, sages, prophets, and 
other godly men, and all the great mothers of 
the world. But if they are mere images whose 
numinosity you have never experienced, it will 
be as if you were talking in a dream, for you 
will not know what you are talking about. The 
mere words you use will be empty and valueless. 
They gain life and meaning only when you 
try to take into account their numinosity — i.e. 
their relationship to the living individual. Only 
then do you begin to understand that their 
names mean very little, whereas the way they 
are related to you is all-important. 

The symbol-producing function of our 
dreams is thus an attempt to bring the original 
mind of man into “advanced" or differentiated 
consciousness, where it has never been before 
and where, therefore, it has never been sub- 
jected to critical self-reflection. For, in ages long 
past, that original mind w as the whole of man’s 
personality. As he developed consciousness, so 
his conscious mind lost contact with some of 
that primitive psychic energy. And the consci- 
ous mind has never known that original mind; 
for it w as discarded in the process of evolving 
the very differentiated consciousness that alone 
could be aware of it. 

Yet it seems that what we call the uncon- 
scious has preserved primitive characteristics 
that formed part of the original mind. It is to 

9 « 

these characteristics that the symbols of dreams 
constantly refer, as if the unconscious sought to 
bring back all the old things from which the 
mind freed itself as it evoked illusions, fanta- 
sies, archaic thought forms, fundamental in- 
stincts, and so on. 

This is what explains the resistance, even 
fear, that people often experience in approach- 
ing unconscious matters. These relict contents 
are not merely neutral or indifferent. On the 
contrary, they are so highly charged that they 
art' often more than merely uncomfortable. 
They can cause real fear. The more they are 
repressed, the more they spread through the 
w hole personality in the form of a neurosis. 

It is this psychic energy that gives them such 
vital importance. It is just as if a man who has 
lived through a period of unconsciousness 
should suddenly realize that there is a gap in 
his memory — that important events seem to 
have taken place that he cannot remember. In 
so far as he assumes that the psyche is an ex- 
clusively personal affair (and this is the usual 
assumption), he will try to retrieve the appar- 
ently lost infantile memories. But the gaps in 
his childhood memory are merely the symp- 
toms of a much greater loss the loss of the 
primitive psyche. 

As the evolution of the embryonic body re- 
peats its prehistory, so the mind also develops 
through a series of prehistoric stages. The main 

task of dreams is to bring back a sort of '“recol- 
lection" of the prehistoric, as well as the infan- 
tile world, right down to the level of' the most 
primitive instincts. Such recollections can have 
a remarkably healing e fleet in certain cases, as 
Freud saw long ago. This observation confirms 
the view that an infantile memory gap la so- 
called amnesia) represents a positive loss and 
its recovery can bring a positiv e increase in life 
and well-being. 

Because a child is physically small and its 
conscious thoughts are scarce and simple, we 
do not realize the far-reaching complications of 
the infantile mind that are based on its original 
identity with the prehistoric psyche. That 
“original mind" is just as much present and 
still functioning in the child as the evolutionary 
stages of mankind are in its embryonic body. 
If' the reader remembers what I said earlier 
about the remarkable dreams of the child who 
made a present of her dreams to her father, he 
will get a good idea of what I mean. 

In infantile amnesia, one finds strange mytho- 
logical fragments that also often appear in later 
psychoses. Images of this kind are highly numi- 
nous and therefore very important. If such re- 
collections reappear in adult life, they may in 
some cases cause profound psychological dis- 
turbance, while in other people they can pro- 
duce miracles of healing or religious conver- 
sions. Often they bring back a piece of life. 

missing for a long time, that gives purpose to 
and thus enriches human life. 

The recollection of infantile memories and 
the reproduction of archetypal ways of psychic 
behavior can create a wider horizon and a 
greater extension of consciousness on condi- 
tion that one succeeds in assimilating and inte- 
grating in the conscious mind the lost and 
regained contents. Since they are not neutral, 
their assimilation will modify the personality, 
just as they themselves will have to undergo 
certain alterations. In this part of what is called 
"the individuation process" (which Dr. M.-L. 
von Franz describes in a later section of this 
book), the interpretation of symbols plays an 
important practical role. For the symbols are 
natural attempts to reconcile and unite oppo- 
sites within the psyche. 

Naturally, just seeingand then brushing aside 
the symbols would have no such effect and 
would merely re-establish the old neurotic con- 
dition and destroy the attempt at a synthesis. 
But, unfortunately, those rare people who do 
not deny the v ery existence of the archetypes 
almost invariably treat them as mere words and 
forget their living reality. When their numino- 
sity has thus (illegitimately ) been banished, the 
process of limitless substitution begins in other 
words, one glides easily from archetype to 
archetype, with everything meaning every- 
thing. It is true enough that the forms of arche- 
type's are to a considerable extent exchangeable. 
But their numinosity is and remains a fact, and 
represents the value of an archetypal event. 

This emotional value must be kept in mind 
and allowed for throughout the whole intel- 
lectual process of dream interpretation. It is 
only too easy to lose' this value, because think- 
ing and feeling are so diametrically opposed 
that thinking almost automatically throws out 
feeling value's and vice versa. Psychology is the 
only science that has to take the factor of value 
fi.e. feeling i into ac count, because it is the' link 
between physical events and life'. Psvchologv 
is often accused of not being scientific on this 
account; but its critics fail to understand the 
scientific and practical necessity of giv ing due 
consideration to feeling. 


Healing the split 

Our intellect has created a new world that 
dominates nature, and has populated it with 
monstrous machines. The latter are so indu- 
bitably useful that we cannot see even a possi- 
bility of getting rid of them or our subservience 
to them. Man is bound to follow the adventur- 
ous promptings of his scientific and inventive 
mind and to admire himself for his splendid 
achievements. At the same time, his genius 
shows the uncanny tendency to invent things 
that become more and more dangerous, be- 
cause they represent better and better means 
for wholesale suicide. 

In view of the rapidly increasing avalanche 
of world population, man has already begun to 
seek ways and means of keeping the rising flood 
at bay. But nature may anticipate all our 
attempts by turning against man his own cre- 
ative mind. The H-bomb, for instance, would 
put an effective stop to overpopulation. In spite 
of our proud domination of nature, we are still 
her victims, for we have not even learned to 
control our own nature. Slowly but, it appears, 
inevitably, we are courting disaster. 

There are no longer any gods whom we can 
invoke to help us. The great religions of the 
world suffer from increasing anemia, because 
the helpful numina have fled from the woods, 
rivers, and mountains, and from animals, and 
the god-men have disappeared underground 
into the unconscious. There we fool ourselves 

Above left, the 20th century's 
greatest city — New York. Below, 
the end of another city — Hiroshima, 

1 945. Though man may seem to have 
gained ascendance over nature, 

Jung always pointed out that man 
has not yet gained control over 
his own nature. 

that they lead an ignominious existence among 
the relics of* our past. Our present lives are 
dominated by the goddess Reason, who is our 
greatest and most tragic illusion. By the aid of 
reason, so we assure ourselves, we have “con- 
quered nature.” 

But this is a mere slogan, for the so-called 
conquest of nature overwhelms us with the 
natural fact of overpopulation and adds to our 
troubles by our psychological incapacity to 
make the necessary political arrangements. It 
remains quite natural for men to cjuarrel and 
to struggle for superiority over one another. 
How then have we “conquered nature”? 

As any change must begin somewhere, it is 
the single individual who will experience it and 
carry it through. The change must indeed be- 
gin with an individual; it might be any one of 
us. Nobody can afford to look around and to 
wait for somebody else to do what he is loath to 
do himself. But since nobody seems to know 
what to do, it might be worth while for each of 
us to ask himself whether by any chance his or 
her unconscious may know something that will 
help us. Certainly the conscious mind seems 
unable to do anything useful in this respect. 
Man today is painfully aware of the fact that 
neither his great religions nor his various philo- 
sophies seem to provide him with those power- 
ful animating ideas that would give him the 
security he needs in face of the present condi- 
tion of the world. 

I know what the Buddhists would say: 
Things would go right if people would only 
follow the “noble eightfold path” of the 
Dharma (doctrine, law) and had true insight 
into the Self. The Christian tells us that if only 
people had faith in God, we should have a 
better world. The rationalist insists that if 
people were intelligent and reasonable, all our 
problems would be manageable. The trouble 
is that none of them manages to solve these 
problems himself. 


Christians often ask why God does not speak 
to them, as he is believed to have done in for- 
mer days. When I hear such questions, it always 
makes me think of the rabbi who was asked 
how it could be that God often showed himself 
to people in the olden days whereas nowadays 
nobody ever sees him. The rabbi replied: 

4 4 Nowadays there is no longer anybody who 
can bow low enough.” 

This answer hits the nail on the head. We 
are so captivated by and entangled in our sub- 
jective consciousness that we have forgotten the 
age-old fact that God speaks chiefly through 
dreams and visions. The Buddhist discards the 
world of unconscious fantasies as useless illu- 
sions; the Christian puts his Church and his 
Bible between himself and his unconscious; 
and the rational intellectual does not yet know 
that his consciousness is not his total psyche. 
This ignorance persists today in spite of the 
fact that for more than 70 years the uncon- 
scious has been a basic scientific concept that 
is indispensable to any serious psychological 

We can no longer afford to be so God- 
Almighty-like as to set ourselves up as judges 
of the merits or demerits of natural phenomena. 
We do not base our botany upon the old- 
fashioned division into useful and useless plants, 
or our zoology upon the naive distinction be- 
tween harmless and dangerous animals. But we 
still complacently assume that consciousness is 
sense and the unconscious is nonsense. I n science 
such an assumption would be laughed out of 
court. Do microbes, for instance, make sense 
or nonsense? 

Whatever the unconscious may be, it is a 
natural phenomenon producing symbols that 
prove to be meaningful. We cannot expect 
someone who has never looked through a micro- 
scope to be an authority on microbes; in the 
same way, no one who has not made a serious 
study of natural symbols can be considered a 
competent judge in this matter. But the general 
undervaluation of' the human soul is so great 
that neither the great religions nor the philoso- 
phies nor scientific rationalism have been will- 
ing to look at it twice. 

In spite of the fact that the Catholic Church 
admits the occurrence of somnia a Deo rrussa 
(dreams sent by God), most of its thinkers 
make no serious attempt to understand dreams. 
I doubt whether there is a Protestant treatise or 
doctrine that would stoop so low as to admit 
the possibility that the vox Dei might be per- 
ceived in a dream. But if a theologian really 
believes in God, by what authority does he 
suggest that God is unable to speak through 
dreams ? 

1 have spent more than half a century in 
investigating natural symbols, and I have come 
to the conclusion that dreams and their symbols 
are not stupid and meaningless. On the con- 
trary, dreams provide the most interesting in- 
formation for those who take the trouble to 
understand their symbols. The results, it is true, 
have little to do with such worldly concerns 
as buying and selling. But the meaning of life 
is not exhaustively explained by one’s business 
life, nor is the deep desire of the human heart 
answered by a bank account. 

In a period of human history when all avail- 
able energy is spent in the investigation of 
nature, very little attention is paid to the essence 
of man, which is his psyche, although many 
researches are made into its conscious functions. 
But the really complex and unfamiliar part of 
the mind, from which symbols are produced, 
is still virtually unexplored. It seems almost in- 
credible that though we receive signals from it 
every night, deciphering these communications 
seems too tedious for any but a very few people 
to be bothered with it. Man's greatest instru- 
ment, his psyche, is little thought of, and it is 
often directly mistrusted and despised. 44 It’s 
only psychological'’ too often means: It is 

Where, exactly, does this immense prejudice 
come from? We have obviously been so busy 
with the question of what we think that we 
entirely forget to ask what the unconscious 
psyche thinks about us. The ideas of Sigmund 
Freud confirmed for most people the existing 
contempt for the psyche. Before him it had been 
merely overlooked and neglected; it has now 
become a dump for moral refuse. 

i m 

This modern standpoint is surely one-sided 
and unjust. It does not even accord with the 
known facts. Our actual knowledge of the un- 
conscious shows that it is a natural phenomenon 
and that, like Nature herself, it is at least 
neutral. It contains all aspects of human nature 
— light and dark, beautiful and ugly, good and 
evil, profound and silly. The study of individual, 
as well as of collective, symbolism is an enor- 
mous task, and one that has not yet been mast- 
ered. But a beginning has been made at last. 
The early results are encouraging, and they 
seem to indicate an answer to many so far un- 
answered questions of present-day mankind. 

Above, Rembrandt's Philosopher 
with an Open Book (1633). The 
inward-looking old man provides an 
image of Jung s belief that each of us 
must explore his own unconscious 
The unconscious must not be ignored; 
it is as natural, as limitless, and 
as powerful as the stars. 

io 3 

2 Ancient myths and modern man 

Joseph L. Henderson 

A ceremonial mask from the island of New Ireland (New Guinea 

Ancient myths and modern man 

The eternal symbols 

The ancient history of man is being meaning- 
fully rediscovered today in the symbolic images 
and myths that have survived ancient man. As 
archaeologists dig deep into the past, it is less 
the events of historical time that we learn to 
treasure than the statues, designs, temples, and 
languages that tell of old beliefs. Other symbols 
are revealed to us by the philologists and reli- 
gious historians, who can translate these beliefs 
into intelligible modern concepts. These in turn 
are brought to life by the cultural anthropolo- 
gists. They can show that the same symbolic 
patterns can be found in the rituals or myths of 
small tribal societies still existing, unchanged 
for centuries, on the outskirts of civilization. 

All such researches have done much to cor- 
rect the one-sided attitude of those modern men 
who maintain that such symbols belong to the 
peoples of antiquity or to "backward" modern 
tribes and are therefore irrelevant to the com- 
plexities of modern life. In London or New 
York we may dismiss the fertility rites of neo- 
lithic man as archaic superstition. If anyone 
claims to have seen a vision or heard voices, he 

is not treated as a saint or as an oracle. It is 
said he is mentally disturbed. We read the 
myths of the ancient Greeks or the folk stories 
of American Indians, but we fail to see any 
connection between them and our attitudes to 
the ‘"heroes” or dramatic events of today. 

Yet the connections are there. And the sym- 
bols that represent them have not lost their re- 
levance for mankind. 

One of the main contributions of our time 
to the understanding and revaluing of such 
eternal symbols has been made by Dr. Jung’s 
School of Analytical Psychology. It has helped 
to break down the arbitrary distinction between 
primitive man, to whom symbols seem a natural 
part of everyday life, and modern man, for 
whom symbols are apparently meaningless and 

As Dr. Jung has pointed out earlier in this 
book, the human mind has its own history and 
the psyche retains traces left from previ- 
ous stages of its development. More than this, 
the contents of' the unconscious exert a forma- 
tive influence on the psyche. Consciously we 

may ignore them, hut unconsciously we respond 
to them, and to the symbolic forms including 
dreams in which they express themselves. 

The individual may feel that his dreams are 
spontaneous and disconnected. But over a long 
period of time the analyst can observe a series 
of dream images and note that they have a 
meaningful pattern; and by understanding this 
his patient may eventually acquire a new atti- 
tude to life. Some of the symbols in such 
dreams derive from what l)r. Jung has called 
"the collective unconscious" that is, the part 
of the psyche that retains and transmits the 
common psychological inheritance of mankind. 
These symbols are so ancient and unfamiliar 
to modern man that he cannot directly under- 
stand or assimilate them. 

It is here that the analyst can help. Possibly 
the patient must be freed from the encumbrance 
of symbols that have grown stale and inappro- 
priate. Or possibly he must be assisted to dis- 
cover the abiding value of an old symbol that, 
far from being dead, is seeking to be reborn in 
modern form. 

Before the analyst can effectively explore the 
meaning of symbols with a patient, he must 
himself acquire a wider knowledge of their 
origins and significance. For the analogies be- 
tween ancient myths and the stories that appear 

in the dreams of modern patients are neither 
trivial nor accidental. They exist because the 
unconscious mind of modern man preserves the 
symbol-making capacity that once found ex- 
pression in the beliefs and rituals of the primi- 
tive. And that capacity still plays a role of vital 
psychic importance. In more ways than we re- 
alize, we are dependent on the messages that 
are carried by such symbols, and both our atti- 
tudes and our behavior are profoundly in- 
fluenced by them. 

In wartime, for instance, one finds increased 
interest in the works of Homer, Shakespeare, and 
Tolstoi, and we read with a new understanding 
those passages that give war its enduring (or 
“archetypal”) meaning. They evoke a response 
from us that is much more profound than it 
could be from someone who has never known 
the intense emotional experience of war. The 
battles on the plains of Troy were utterly un- 
like the fighting at Agincourt or Borodino, yet 
tin* great writers are able to transcend the 
differences of time and place and to express 
themes that are universal. We respond because 
these themes are fundamentally symbolic. 

A more striking example should be familiar 
to anyone who has grown up in a Christian 
society. At Christmas we may express our inner 
feeling for the mythological birth of a semi- 


Far left, a symbolic ceremony of 
antiquity in 20th-century form The 
American astronaut John Glenn in 
a Washington parade after his orbit 
of the earth in 1 962 like a hero 
of old, after a victory, returning 
home in a triumphal procession 

Center left, a cross- like sculpture 
of a Greek fertility goddess (c. 2500 
B.C.). Left, two views of b 1 2th 
century Scots stone cross that 
retains some pagan femaleness: 
the 'breasts ' at the crossbar 
Right, another age-old archetype 
reborn in a new guise: a Russian 
poster for an "atheistic" festival 
at Easter, to replace the Christian 
festival just as the Christian 
Easter was superimposed on earlier 
pagan solstice rites. 


divine child, even though we may not believe 
in the doctrine of the virgin birth of Christ or 
have any kind of conscious religious faith. Un- 
knowingly, we have fallen in with the symbol- 
ism of rebirth. This is a relic of an immensely 
older solstice festival, which carries the hope 
that the fading winter landscape of the northern 
hemisphere will be renewed. For all our sophis- 
tication we find satisfaction in this symbolic 
festival, just as we join with our children at 
Easter in the pleasant ritual of Easter eggs and 
Easter rabbits. 

But do we understand what we do, or see 
the connection between the story of Christ’s 
birth, death, and resurrection and the folk 
symbolism of Easter? Usually we do not even 
care to consider such things intellectually. 

Yet they complement each other. Christ’s 
crucifixion on Good Friday seems at first sight 
to belong to the same pattern of fertility sym- 
bolism that one finds in the rituals of such other 
“saviors” as Osiris, Tammuz, and Orpheus. 
They, too, were of divine or semi-divine 
birth, they flourished, were killed, and were 
reborn. They belonged, in fact, to cyclic reli- 
gions in which the death and rebirth of the 
god-king was an eternally recurring myth. 

But the resurrection of Christ on Easter Sun- 
day is much less satisfying from a ritual point 
of view than is the symbolism of the cyclic re- 
ligions. For Christ ascends to sit at the right 
hand of God the Father: His resurrection 
occurs once and for all. 

It is this finality of the Christian concept of 
the resurrection (the Christian idea of the Last 
Judgment has a similar “closed” theme) that 
distinguishes Christianity from other god-king 
myths. It happened once, and the ritual merely 
commemorates it. But this sense of finality is 
probably one reason why early Christians, still 
influenced by pre-Christian traditions, felt that 
Christianity needed to be supplemented by 
some elements of an older fertility ritual. They 
needed the recurring promise of rebirth; and 
that is what is symbolized by the egg and the 
rabbit of Easter. 

I have taken two quite different examples to 
show how modern man continues to respond to 
profound psychic influences of a kind that, con- 
sciously, he dismisses as little more than the 
folk tales of superstitious and uneducated 
peoples. But it is necessary to go much further 
than this. The more closely one looks at the 
history of symbolism, and at the role that sym- 

r / i 


Left, a 1 3th-century Japanese scroll 
painting of the destruction of a 
city; below, similarly dominated 
by flame and smoke, St. Paul's 
Cathedral, London, during an air 
raid in World War II. Methods of 
warfare have changed over the 
ages, but the emotional impact of 
war is timeless and archetypal. 

bols have played in the life of many different 
cultures, the more one understands that there 
is also a re-creative meaning in these symbols. 

Some symbols relate to childhood and the 
transition to adolescence, others to maturity, 
and others again to the experience of old age, 
when man is preparing for his inevitable death. 
Dr. Jung has described how the dreams of a girl 
of eight contained the symbols one normally 
associates with old age. Her dreams presented 
aspects of initiation into life as belonging to the 
same archetypal pattern as initiation into death. 
This progression of symbolic ideas may take 
place, therefore, within the unconscious mind 
of modern man just as it took place in the 
rituals of ancient societies. 

Thiscrucial link between archaic or primitive 
myths and the symbols produced by the un- 
conscious is of immense practical importance to 
the analyst. It enables him to identify and to 
interpret these symbols in a context that gives 
them historical perspective as well as psycholo- 
gical meaning. I shall now take some of the 
more important myths of antiquity and show 
how — and to what purpose — they are analo- 
gous to the symbolic material that we encoun- 
ter in our dreams. 

Top left, Christ’s nativity; center, 
his crucifixion; bottom, his ascension. 
His birth, death, and rebirth follows 
the pattern of many ancient hero 
myths — a pattern originally based on 
seasonal fertility rites like those 
probably held 3000 years ago at 
England's Stonehenge (seen below 
at dawn at the summer solstice). 

Heroes and hero makers 

The myth of the hero is the most common and 
the best-known myth in the world. We find it 
in the classical mythology of Greece and Rome, 
in the Middle Ages, in the Far East, and among 
contemporary primitive tribes. It also appears 
in our dreams. It has an obvious dramatic 
appeal, and a less obvious, but nonetheless pro- 
found, psychological importance. 

These hero myths vary enormously in detail, 
but the more closely one examines them the 
more one sees that structurally they are very 
similar. They have, that is to say, a universal 
pattern, even though they were developed by 
groups or individuals without any direct cul- 
tural contact with each other— by, for instance, 
tribes of Africans or North American Indians, 
or the Greeks, or the Incas of Peru. Over and 
over again one hears a tale describing a hero's 
miraculous but humble birth, his early proof of 
superhuman strength, his rapid rise to promi- 
nence or power, his triumphant struggle with 

the forces of evil, his fallibility to the sin of 
pride (hybris), and his fall through betrayal or 
a “heroic" sacrifice that ends in his death. 

I shall later explain in more detail why I be- 
lieve that this pattern has psychological mean- 
ing both for the individual, who is endeavoring 
to discover and assert his personality, and for a 
whole society, which has an equal need to 
establish its collective identity. But another im- 
portant characteristic of the hero myth provides 
a clue. In many of these stories the early weak- 
ness of the hero is balanced by the appearance 
of strong “tutelary" figures - or guardians- 
who enable him to perform the superhuman 
tasks that he cannot accomplish unaided. 
Among the Greek heroes, Theseus had Posei- 
don, god of the sea, as his deity; Perseus had 
Athena; Achilles had Gheiron, the wise cen- 
taur, as his tutor. 

These godlike figures are in 1'act symbolic re- 
presentatives of the whole psyche, the larger 

The hero's early proof of strength 
occurs in most hero myths. Below, 
the infant Hercules killing two 
serpents Top right, the young 
King Arthur, alone able to draw a 
magic sword from a stone. Bottom 
right, America's Davy Crockett, who 
killed a bear when he was three. 


Above, two examples of the hero’s 
betrayal : the biblical hero Samson 
(top), betrayed by Delilah; and the 
Persian hero Rustam, led into a 
trap by a man he trusted. Below, 
a modern result of hybns (over- 
confidence) : German prisoners in 
Stalingrad, 1 941 , after Hitler 
invaded Russia in winter. 

Above, three examples of the tutelary 
or guardian figure that accompanies 
the archetypal hero. Top, from Greek 
myth, the centaur Cheiron giving 
instruction to the youthful Achilles 
Center, King Arthur's guardian, the 
magician Merlin (holding a scroll). 
Bottom, an instance from modern life: 
the trainer on whose knowledge and 
experience a professional boxer 
often depends. 

Most heroes must face and overcome 
various monsters and forces of evil. 
Top, the Scandinavian hero Sigurd 
(lower right of picture) slays the 
serpent Fafnir. Center, the ancient 
Babylonian epic hero Gilgamesh 
battling with a lion Bottom, the 
modern American comic strip hero 
Superman, whose one-man war 
against crime often requires him to 
rescue pretty girls 

I I I 

and more comprehensive identity that supplies 
the strength that the personal ego lacks. Their 
special role suggests that the essential function 
of the heroic myth is the development of the 
individual’s ego-consciousness — his awareness 
of his own strengths and weaknesses- in a man- 
ner that will equip him for the arduous tasks 
with which life confronts him. Once the indi- 
vidual has passed his initial test and can enter 
the mature phase of life, the hero myth loses its 
relevance. The hero’s symbolic death becomes, 
as it were, the achievement of that maturity. 

I have so far been referring to the complete 
hero myth, in which the whole cycle from birth 
to death is elaborately described. But it is essen- 
tial to recognize that at each of the stages in 
this cycle there are special forms of the hero 
story that apply to the particular point reached 
by the individual in the development of his ego- 
consciousness, and to the specific problem con- 
fronting him at a given moment. That is to 
say, the image of the hero evolves in a manner 
that reflects each stage of the evolution of the 
human personality. 

This concept can be more easily understood 
if I present it in wfr^t amounts to a diagram. 
1 take this example from the obscure North 
American tribe of Winnebago Indians, because 
it sets out quite clearly four distinct stages in 
the evolution of the hero. In these stories (which 
Dr. Paul Radin published in 1948 under the 

title Hero Cycles of the Winnebago ) we can see 
the definite progression from the most primitive 
to the most sophisticated concept of the hero. 
This progression is characteristic of other hero 
cycles. Though the symbolic figures in them 
naturally have different names, their roles are 
similar, and we shall understand them better 
once we have grasped the point made by this 

Dr. Radin noted lour distinct cycles in the 
evolution of the hero myth. He named them the 
Trickster cycle, the Hare cycle, the Red Horn 
cycle, and the Twin cycle. He correctly per- 
ceived the psychology of this evolution when he 
said: "It represents our efforts to deal with the 
problem of growing up, aided by the illusion of 
an eternal fiction." 

The Trickster cycle corresponds to the earliest 
and least developed period of life. Trickster is 
a figure whose physical appetites dominate his 
behavior; he has the mentality of an infant. 
Lacking any purpose beyond the gratification 
of his primary needs, he is cruel, cynical, and 
unfeeling. (Our stories of Brer Rabbit or Rey- 
nard the Fox preserve the essentials of the 
Trickster myth.) This figure, which at the out- 
set assumes the form of an animal, passes from 
one mischievous exploit to another. But, as he 
does so, a change comes over him. At the end 
of his rogue’s progress he is beginning to take 
on the physical likeness of a grown man. 

1 12 

The next figure is Hare. He also, like 
Trickster (whose animal traits are represented 
among some American Indians by a coyote), 
first appears in animal form. He has not yet 
attained mature human stature, but all the 
same he appears as the founder of human 
culture the Transformer. The Winnebago be- 
lieve that, in giving them their famous Medicine 
Rite, he became their savior as well as their 
culture-hero. This myth was so powerful, Dr. 
Radin tells us, that the members of the Peyote 
Rite were reluctant to give up Hare when 
Christianity began to penetrate the tribe. He 
became merged with the figure of Christ, and 
some of them argued that they had no need of 
Christ since they already had Hare. This arche- 
typal figure represents a distinct advance on 
Trickster: One can see that he is becoming a 
socialized being, correcting the instinctual and 
infantile urges found in the Trickster cycle. 

Red Horn, the third of this series of hero 
figures, is an ambiguous person, said to be the 
youngest of 10 brothers. He meets the require- 
ments of an archetypal hero by passing such 
tests as winning a race and by proving himself 
in battle. His superhuman power is shown by 
his ability to defeat giants by guile (in a game 
of dice) or by strength (in a wrestling match). 
He has a powerful companion in the form of a 
thunderbird called “Storms-as-he-walks,” whose 
strength compensates for whatever weakness 

Red Horn may display. With Red Horn we 
have reached the world of man, though an 
archaic world, in which the aid of superhuman 
powers or tutelary gods is needed to ensure 
man's victory over the evil forces that beset him. 
Toward the end of the story the hero-god de- 
parts, leaving Red Horn and his sons on earth. 
The danger to man's happiness and security 
now comes from man himself. 

This basic theme (which is repeated in the 
last cycle, that of the Twins) raises, in effect, 
the vital question: How long can human be- 
ings. be successful without falling victims to 
their own pride or, in mythological terms, to 
the jealousy of the gods? 

Though the Twins are said to be the sons of 
the Sun, they are essentially human and to- 
gether constitute a single person. Originally 
united in the mother's womb, they were forced 
apart at birth. Yet they belong together, and 
it is necessary — though exceedingly difficult — 
to reunite them. In these two children we see 
the two sides of man's nature. One of them. 
Flesh, is acquiescent, mild, and without initia- 
tive; the other, Stump, is dynamic and rebel- 
lious. In some of the stories of the Twin Heroes 
these attitudes are refined to the point where 
one figure represents the introvert, whose main 
strength lies in his powers of reflection, and the 
other is an extravert, a man of action who can 
accomplish great deeds. 

"Trickster": the first, rudimentary 
stage in the development of the 
hero myth, in which the hero is 
instinctual, uninhibited, and often 
childish. Far left, the 1 6th-century 
Chinese epic hero Monkey, shown 
(in a modern Peking opera) tricking 
a river king into giving up a magic 
staff. Left, on a sixth -century 
B.c. jar, the infant Hermes in his 
cradle after having stolen Apollo's 
cattle Right, the trouble-making 
Norse god Loki (a 19th-century 
sculpture). Far right, Charlie 
Chaplin creating a disturbance in 
the 1 936 film Modern Times — a 
20th-century trickster. 

1 >3 

For a long time these two heroes are invin- 
cible: Whether they are presented as two sep- 
arate figures or as two-in-one, they carry all 
before them. Yet, like the warrior gods of 
Navaho Indian mythology, they eventually 
sicken from the abuse of their own power. There 
are no monsters left in heaven or on earth for 
them to overcome, and their consequent wild 
behavior brings retribution in its train. The 
Winnebago say that nothing, in the end, was 
safe from them — not even the supports on which 
the world rests. When the Twins killed one of 
the four animals that upheld the earth, they 
had overstepped all limits, and the time had 
come to put a stop to their career. The punish- 
ment they deserved was death. 

Thus, in both the Red Horn cycle and that of 
the Twins, we see the theme of sacrifice or 
death of the hero as a necessary cure for hybris , 
the pride that has over-reached itself. In the 
primitive societies whose levels of culture cor- 
respond to the Red Horn cycle, it appears that 
this danger may have been forestalled by the 
institution of propitiatory human sacrifice- a 
theme that has immense symbolic importance 
and recurs continually in human history. The 
Winnebago, like the Iroquois and a few Algon- 
quin tribes, probably ate human flesh as a tote- 
mic ritual that could tame their individualistic 
and destructive impulses. 

In the examples of the hero’s betrayal or de- 
feat that occur in European mythology, the 
theme of ritual sacrifice is more specifically em- 
ployed as a punishment for hybris . But the 
W innebago, like the Navaho, do not go so far. 
Though the Twins erred, and though the 
punishment should have been death, they 
themselves became so frightened by their irre- 
sponsible power that they consented to live in a 
state of permanent rest: The conflicting sides 
of human nature were again in equilibrium. 

I have given this description of the four types 
of hero at some, length because it provides a 
clear demonstration of the pattern that occurs 
both in the historic myths and in the hero 
dreams ol contemporary man. With this in mind 
we can examine the following dream of a 
middle-aged patient. The interpretation of this 
dream shows how the analytical psychologist 
can, from his knowledge* of mythology, help his 
patient find an answer to what might otherwise 
seem an insoluble riddle. This man dreamed he 
was at a theatre, in the role of “an important 
spectator whose opinion is respected.” There 
was an act in which a white monkey was stand- 
ing on a pedestal with men around him. In 
recounting his dream the man said: 

My guide explains the theme to me.' It is the 
ordeal of a young sailor who is exposed both to 

The second stage in the evolution 
of the hero is the founder of human 
culture. Left, a Navaho sand painting 
of the myth of Coyote, who stole 
fire from the gods and gave it to 
man. In Greek myth Prometheus also 
stole fire from the gods for man — 
for which he was chained to a rock 
and tortured by an eagle (below, 
on a sixth-century b.c. cup). 

The hero in the third stage is a 
powerful man-god — like Buddha. In 
the first-century sculpture above, 
Siddhartha begins the journey on 
which he will receive enlightenment 
and become Buddha. 

Below left, a medieval Italian 
sculpture of Romulus and Remus, 
the twins (raised by a wolf) who 
founded Rome — and who are the 
best-known instance of the fourth 
stage of the hero myth 

In the fourth stage, the Twins 
often misuse their power — as did 
the Roman heroes Castor and Pollux 
when they abducted the daughters 
of Leucippus (below, in a painting 
by the Flemish artist Rubens). 


the wind and to being beaten up. I begin to 
object that this white monkey is not a sailor at 
all; but just at that moment a young man in 
black stands up and I think that he must be the 
true hero. But another handsome young man 
strides toward an altar and stretches himself out 
on it. They are making marks on his bare chest 
as a preparation to offering him as a human 

Then I find myself on a platform with several 
other people. We could get down by a small 
ladder, but I hesitate to do so because there are 
two young toughs standing by and I think that 
they will stop us. But when a woman in the group 
uses the ladder unmolested, I see that it is safe 
and all of us follow the woman down. 

Now a dream of this kind cannot be quickly 
or simply interpreted. We have to unravel it 
carefully in order to show both its relation to 
the dreamer’s own life and its wider symbolic 
implications. The patient who produced it was 
a man who had achieved maturity in a physical 
sense. He was successful in his career, and he 
had apparently done pretty well as a husband 
and father. Yet psychologically he was still 
immature, and had not completed his youthful 
phaseofdevelopment. 1 1 was this psychic imma- 
turity that expressed itselfin his dreams as differ- 
ent aspects of the hero myth. These images still 
exerted a strong attraction for his imagination 
even though they had long since exhausted any 

of their meaning in terms of the reality of his 
everyday life. 

Thus, in a dream, we see a series of figures 
theatrically presented as various aspects of a 
figure that the dreamer keeps expecting will 
turn out to be the true hero. The first is a white 
monkey, the second a sailor, the third a young 
man in black, and the last a “handsome young 
man/' In the early part of the performance, 
which is supposed to represent the sailor’s 
ordeal, the dreamer sees only the white mon- 
key. The man in black suddenly appears and as 
suddenly disappears; he is a new figure who 
first contrasts with the white monkey and is then 
for a moment confused with the hero proper. 
(Such confusion in dreams is not unusual. The 
dreamer is not usually presented with clear 
images by the unconscious. He has to puzzle out 
a meaning from a succession of contrasts and 

Significantly, these figures appear in the 
course of a theatrical performance, and this 
context seems to be a direct reference by the 
dreamer to his own treatment by analysis: The 
“guide” he mentions is presumably his analyst. 
Yet he does not sec himself as a patient who is 
being treated by a doctor but as “an important 
spectator whose opinion is respected.” This is 
the vantage point from which he sees certain 
figures whom he associates with the experience 

An individual psyche develops (as 
does the hero myth) from a primitive, 
childish stage — and often images 
of the early stages can appear in the 
dreams of psychologically immature 
adults. The first stage might be 
represented by the carefree play 
of children — like the pillow fight 
(far left) from the 1 933 French film 
Zero de Conduite. The second 
stage might be the reckless thrill- 
seeking of early adolescence: Right, 
American youths test their nerves 
in a speeding car. A later stage 
can produce idealism, and self- 
sacrifice in late adolescence, 
exemplified in the picture (opposite, 
far right) taken during the East Berlin 
rising (June 1 953) when young men 
fought Russian tanks with stones 

1 16 


of growing up. The white monkey, for instance, 
reminds him of the playful and somewhat law- 
less behavior of boys between the'ages of seven 
and 12. The sailor suggests the adventurousness 
of early adolescence, together with the conse- 
quent punishment by “beating” for irrespon- 
sible pranks. The dreamer could offer no asso- 
ciation to the young man in black, but in the 
handsome young man about to be sacrificed he 
saw a reminder of the self-sacrificing idealism 
of late adolescence. 

At this stage it is possible to put together the 
historical material (or archetypal hero images) 
and the data from the dreamer’s personal ex- 
perience in order to see how they corroborate, 
contradict, or qualify each other. 

The first conclusion is that the white monkey 
seems to represent Trickster-- or at least those 
traits of personality that the Winnebago attri- 
bute to Trickster. But, to me, the monkey also 
stands for something that the dreamer has not 
personally and adequately experienced for him- 
self — he in fact says that in the dream he was 
a spectator. I found out that as a boy he had 
been excessively attached to his parents, and 
that he was naturally introspective. For these 
reasons he had never fully developed the bois- 
terous qualities natural to late childhood; nor 
had he joined in the games of his schoolfellows. 
He had not, as the saying goes, “got up to mon- 

key tricks” or practiced “monkeyshines.” The 
saying provides the clue here. The monkey in 
the dream is in fact a symbolic form of the 
Trickster figure. 

But why should Trickster appear as a mon- 
key? And why should it be white? As I have 
already pointed out, the Winnebago myth tells 
us that, toward the end of the cycle, Trickster 
begins to emerge in the physical likeness of a 
man. And here, in the dream, is a monkey — 
so close to a human being that it is a laughable 
and not too dangerous caricature of a man. 
The dreamer himself could offer no personal 
association that could explain why the monkey 
was white. But from our knowledge of primi- 
tive symbolism we can conjecture that white- 
ness lends a special quality of “god-likeness” to 
this otherwise banal figure. (The albino is re- 
garded as sacred in many primitive communi- 
ties.) This fits in quite well with Trickster’s 
semi-divine or semi-magical powers. 

Thus, it seems, the white monkey symbolizes 
for the dreamer the positive quality of child- 
hood playfulness, which he had insufficiently 
accepted at the time, and which he now feels 
called upon to exalt. As the dream tells us, he 
places it “on a pedestal,” where it becomes 
something more than a lost childhood experi- 
ence. It is, for the adult man, a symbol of 
creative experimentalism. 

Next we come to the conclusion about the 
monkey. Is it a monkey, or is it a sailor who 
has to put up with beatings? The dreamer’s 
own associations pointed to the meaning of this 
transformation. But in any case the next stage 
in human development is one in which the irre- 
sponsibility of childhood gives way to a period 
of socialization, and that involves submission to 
painful discipline. One could say, therefore, 
that the sailor is an advanced form ofTrickster, 
who is being changed into a socially responsible 
person by means of an initiation ordeal. Draw- 
ing on the history of symbolism, we can assume 
that the wind represents the natural elements 
in this process, and the beatings are those that 
are humanly induced. 

At this point, then, we have a reference to 
the process that the Winnebago describe in the 
Hare cycle, where the culture-hero is a weak 
yet struggling figure, ready to sacrifice childish- 
ness for the sake of further development. Once 
again, in this phase of the dream, the patient is 
acknowledging his failure to experience to the 
full an important aspect of childhood and early 
adolescence. He missed out on the playfulness 
of the child, and also on the rather more ad- 

vanced pranks of the young teenager, and he 
is seeking ways in which those lost experiences 
and personal qualities can be rehabilitated. 

Next comes a curious change in the dream. 
The young man in black appears, and for a 
moment the dreamer feels that this is the “true 
hero. ?? That is all we are told about the man 
in black; yet this fleeting glimpse introduces a 
theme of profound importance— a theme that 
occurs frequently in dreams. 

This is the concept of the “shadow,” which 
plays such a vital role in analytical psychology. 
Dr. Jung has pointed out that the shadow cast 
by the conscious mind of the individual con- 
tains the hidden, repressed, and unfavorable (or 
nefarious) aspects of the personality. But this 
darkness is not just the simple converse of the 
conscious ego. Just as the ego contains unfavor- 
able and destructive attitudes, so the shadow 
has good qualities - normal instincts and 
creative impulses. Ego and shadow, indeed, 
although separate, are inextricably linked to- 
gether in much the same way that thought and 
feeling are related to each other. 

The ego, nevertheless, is in conflict with the 
shadow, in what Dr. Jung once called “the 
battle for deliverance.” In the struggle of 
primitive man to achieve consciousness, this 
conflict is expressed by the contest between the 
archetypal hero and the cosmic powers of evil, 
personified by dragons and other monsters. In 
the developing consciousness of the individual 
the hero figure is the symbolic means by which 
the emerging ego overcomes the inertia of the 
unconscious mind, and liberates the mature 

The young, undifferentiated ego- 
personality is protected by the 
mother— a protection imaged by 
the sheltering Madonna, left (in 
a painting by the 1 5th-century 
Italian artist Piero della Francesca), 
or by the Egyptian sky goddess Nut, 
right, bending over the earth (in a 
fifth-century b c. relief). But the 
ego must eventually free itself from 
unconsciousness and immaturity; 
and its “battle for deliverance" is 
often symbolized by a hero's battle 
with a monster — like the Japanese 
god Susanoo's battle with a serpent, 
top right (in a 19th-century print). 
The hero doesn't always win at 
once: For instance, Jonah was 
swallowed by the whale (far right, 
from a 14th-century manuscript). 

man from a regressive longing to return to the 
blissful state of infancy in a world dominated 
by his mother. 

Usually, in mythology, the hero wins his 
battle against the monster. (I shall say more 
about this in a moment.) But there are other 
hero myths in which the hero gives in to the 
monster. A familiar type is that of Jonah and 
the whale, in which the hero is swallowed by a 
sea monster that carries him on a night sea 
journey from west to east, thus symbolizing the 
supposed transit of the sun from sunset to 
dawn. The hero goes into darkness, which 
represents a kind of death. I have encountered 
this theme in dreams presented in my own 
clinical experience. 

The battle between the hero and the dragon 
is the more active form of this myth, and it 
shows more clearly the archetypal theme of the 
ego’s triumph over regressive trends. For most 
people the dark or negative side of the person- 
ality remains unconscious. The hero, on the 
contrary, must realize that the shadow exists 

The ego's emergence can be 
symbolized not by a battle but by a 
sacrifice: death leading to rebirth. 
Revolution is sacrificial in this way: 
Delacroix's painting (below), Greece 
expiring on the Ruins of Misso/onghi, 
personifies the country killed by civil 
war to be liberated and reborn. As 
individual sacrifices: the British poet 
Byron (above) died in Greece during 
the revolution (1 824). Below left, the 
Christian martyr St. Lucia sacrificed 
her eyes and her life for her religion. 

and that lie ran draw strength from it. Hr must 
come to terms with its destructive powers if he 
is to become sufficiently terrible to overcome 
the dragon i.e. before the ego can triumph, it 
must master and assimilate the shadow. 

One can see this theme, incidentally, in a 
well-known literary hero figure Goethe's char- 
acter of Faust. In accepting the wager of 
Mephistopheles. Faust put himself in the power 
ol a “shadow" figure that Goethe describes as 
“part of that power which, willing evil, finds 
the good." Like the man whose dream I have 
been discussing, Faust had failed to live out to 
the full an important part of his early life. He 
was, accordingly, an unreal or incomplete per- 
son who lost himself in a fruitless cpiest for 
metaphysical goals that failed to materialize. 
He was still unw illing to accept life's challenge 
to live both the good and the bad. 

It is to this aspect of the unconscious that the 
young man in black in my patient's dream 
seems to refer. Such a reminder of the shadow 
side of his personality, of its powerful potential 

and its role in preparing the hero for the strug- 
gles of life, is an essential transition from the 
earlier parts of the dream to the theme of the 
sacrificial hero: the handsome young man who 
places himself on an altar. This figure repre- 
sents the form of heroism that is commonly 
associated to the ego- building process of late 
adolescence. A man expresses the ideal prin- 
ciples of his life at this time, sensing their power 
both to transform himself and to change his re- 
lations with others. He is, so to speak, in the 
bloom of youth, attractive, full of energy and 
idealism. Why, then, does he willingly offer 
himself as a human sacrifice? 

The reason, presumably, is the same as that 
which made the Twins of the Winnebago myth 
give up their power on pain of destruction. The 
idealism of youth, which drives one so hard, is 
bound to lead to over-confidence: The human 
ego can be exalted to experience godlike attri- 
butes, but only at the cost of over-reaching itself 
and falling to disaster. (This is the meaning of 
the story of Icarus, the youth who is carried 

Below, a montage of World War I : 
a call-to arms poster, infantry, a 
military cemetery. Memorials and 
religious services for soldiers who 
gave their lives for their country 
often reflect the cyclic death and 
rebirth" theme of the archetypal 
heroic sacrifice An inscription 
on one British memorial to the dead 
of World War I reads: "At the going 
down of the sun and in the morning 
we will remember them." 

In mythology, a hero's death is 
often due to his own hybris. which 
causes the gods to humble him. As 
a modern example: In 1 91 2 the 
ship Titanic struck an iceberg and 
sank. (Right, a montage of scenes 
of the sinking, from the 1 943 film 
Titanic.) Vet the Titanic had been 
called "unsmkable": according to 
the American author Walter Lord, 
one sailor was heard to say, "God 
himself couldn't sink this ship !" 


up to heaven on his fragile, humanly contrived 
wings, but who flies too close to the sun and 
plunges to his doom.) All the same, the youth- 
ful ego must always run this risk, for if a young 
man does not strive for a higher goal than he 
can safely reach, he cannot surmount the ob- 
stacles between adolescence and maturity. 

So far, I have been talking about the con- 
clusions that, at the level of his personal asso- 
ciations, my patient could draw from his own 
dream. Yet there is an archetypal level of the 
dream — the mystery of the proffered human 
sacrifice. It is precisely because it is a mystery 
that it is expressed in a ritual act that, in its 
symbolism, carries us a long way back into 

man’s history. Here, as the man lies stretched 
out on an altar, we see a reference to an act 
even more primitive than those performed on 
the altar stone in the temple at Stonehenge. 
There, as on so many primitive altars, we can 
imagine a yearly solstice rite combined with 
the death and rebirth of a mythological hero. 

The ritual has a sorrow about it that is also 
a kind of joy, an inward acknowledgment that 
death also leads to a new life. Whether it is 
expressed in the prose epic of the Winnebago 
Indians, in a lament for the death of Balder in 
the Norse eddas, in Walt Whitman’s poems of 
mourning for Abraham Lincoln, or in the 
dream ritual whereby a man returns to his 

Heroes often fight monsters to 
rescue "damsels in distress'' (who 
symbolize the anima) Left, St. 
George slays a dragon to free a 
maiden (in a 1 5th-century Italian 
painting). Right, in the 1 91 6 film 
The Great Secret, the dragon has 
become a locomotive but the heroic 
rescue remains the same. 

youthful hopes and fears, it is the same theme 
— the drama of new birth through death. 

The end of the dream brings out a curious 
epilogue in which the dreamer at last becomes 
involved in the action of the dream. He and 
others are on a platform from which they have 
to descend. He does not trust the ladder because 
of the possible interference of hoodlums, but 
a woman encourages him to believe he can go 
down safely and this is accomplished. Since I 
found out from his associations that the whole 
performance he witnessed was part of his 
analysis— a process of inner change that he was 
experiencing — he was presumably thinking of 
the difficulty of getting back to everyday reality 
again. His fear of the “toughs," as he calls 
them, suggests his fear that the Trickster arche- 
type may appear in a collective form. 

The saving elements in the dream are the 
man-made ladder, which here is probably a 
symbol of the rational mind, and the presence 
of the woman who encourages the dreamer to 
use it. Her appearance in the final sequence of 
the dream points to a psychic need to include 
a feminine principle as a complement to all 
this excessively masculine activity. 

It should not be assumed from what I have 
said, or from the fact that I have chosen to use 
the Winnebago myth to illuminate this particu- 
lar dream, that one must seek for complete and 
wholly mechanical parallels between a dream 
and the materials one can find in the history of 
mythology. Each dream is individual to the 
dreamer, and the precise form it takes is deter- 
mined by his own situation. What I have 
sought to show is the manner in which the un- 
conscious draws on this archetypal material and 
modifies its patterns to the dreamer's needs. 
Thus, in this particular dream, one must not 
look for a direct reference to what the Winne- 
bago describe in the Red Horn or Twin cycles; 
the reference is rather to the essence of those 
two themes to the sacrificial element in them. 

As a general rule it can be said that the need 
for hero symbols arises when the ego needs 
strengthening— when, that is to say, the con- 
scious mind needs assistance in some task that 
it cannot accomplish unaided or without draw- 
ing on the sources of strength that lie in the un- 
conscious mind. In the dream I have been dis- 
cussing, for instance, there was no reference to 
one of the more important aspects of the myth 
of the typical hero — his capacity to save or 
protect beautiful women from terrible danger. 
(The damsel in distress was a favorite myth of 
medieval Europe.) This is one way in which 
myths or dreams refer to the “anima" — the 
feminine element of the male psyche that 
Goethe called “the Eternal Feminine." 

The nature and function of this female ele- 
ment will be discussed later in this book by Dr. 
von Franz. But its relation to the hero figure 
can be illustrated here by a dream produced 
by another patient, also a man of mature years. 
He began by saying: 

“I had returned from a long hike through 
India. A woman had equipped myself and a 
friend for the journey, and on my return I 
reproached her for failing to give us black rain- 
hats, telling her that through this oversight we 
had been soaked by the rain." 

This introduction to the dream, it later 
emerged, referred to a period in this man's 
youth when he was given to taking “heroic" 
walks through dangerous mountain country in 
company with a college friend. (As he had 

i 23 

never been to India, and in view of his own 
associations to this dream, I concluded that the 
dream journey signified his exploration of a 
new region — not, that is to say, a real place but 
the realm of the unconscious.) 

In his dream the patient seems to feel that 
a woman — presumably a personification of his 
anima — has failed to prepare him properly for 
this expedition. The lack of a suitable rainhat 
suggests that he feels in an unprotected state of 
mind, in which he is uncomfortably affected by 
exposure to new and not altogether pleasant 
experiences. He believes that the woman should 
have provided a rainhat for him, just as his 
mother provided clothes for him to wear as a 
boy. This episode is reminiscent of his early 
picaresque wanderings, when he was sustained 
by the assumption that his mother (the original 
feminine image) would protect him against all 
dangers. As he grew older, he saw that this was 
a childish illusion, and he now blames his mis- 
fortune on his own anima, not his mother. 

In the next stage of the dream the patient 
speaks of participating in a hike with a group of 
people. He grows tired and returns to an out- 
door restaurant where he finds his raincoat, to- 
gether with the rainhat that he had missed 
earlier. He sits down to rest ; and, as he does so, 
he notices a poster stating that a local high- 
school boy is taking the part of Perseus in a 
play. Then the boy in question appears — who 
turns out to be not a boy at all but a husky 

young man. He is dressed in gray with a black 
hat, and he sits down to talk with another 
young man dressed in a black suit. Immediately 
alter this scene the dreamer feels a new vigor, 
and finds that he is capable of rejoining his 
party. They all then climb over the next hill. 
There, below them, he sees their destination ; it 
is a lovely harbor town. He feels both heartened 
and rejuvenated by the discovery. 

Here, in contrast to the restless, uncomfort- 
able, and lonely journey of' the first episode, 
the dreamer is with a group. The contrast 
marks a change from an earlier pattern of 
isolation and youthful protest to the socializing 
influence of a relation to others. Since this im- 
plies a new capacity for relatedness, it suggests 
that his anima must now' be functioning better 
than it was before — symbolized by his discov- 
ery of the missing hat that the anima figure had 
previously failed to provide for him. 

But the dreamer is tired, and the scene at 
the restaurant reflects his need to look at his 
earlier attitudes in a new light, with the hope 
of renewing his strength by this regression. And 
so it turns out. What he first sees is a poster 
suggesting the enactment of a youthful hero 
role — a high-school boy playing the part of 
Perseus. Then he sees the boy, now’ a man, with 
a friend who makes a sharp contrast to him. 
The one dressed in light gray, the other in 
black, can be recognized, from what I have 
previously said, as a version of the Tw ins. They 

are hero-figures expressing the opposites of ego 
and alter-ego, which, however, appear here in 
a harmonious and unified relation. 

The patient's associations confirmed this and 
emphasized that the figure in gray represents a 
well-adapted, worldly attitude to life, whereas 
the figure in black represents the spiritual life, 
in the sense that a clergyman wears black. That 
they wore hats (and he now had found his own ) 
points to their having achieved a relatively 
mature identity of a kind that he had felt to be 
severely lacking in his own earlier adolescent 
years, when the quality of “Tricksterism'’ still 
clung to him, in spite of his idealistic self-image 
as a seeker of wisdom. 

His association to the Greek hero Perseus 
was a curious one, which proved especially sig- 
nificant because it revealed a glaring inaccu- 
racy. It turned out that he thought Perseus was 
the hero who slew the Minotaur and rescued 
Ariadne from the Cretan labyrinth. As he wrote 
the name down for me, he discovered his mis- 
take — that it was Theseus, not Perseus, who 
slew tlie Minotaur — and this mistake became 
suddenly meaningful, as such slips often do, by 
making him notice what these two heroes had 
in common. They both had to overcome their 
fear of unconscious demonic maternal powers 
and had to liberate from these powers a single 
youthful feminine figure. 

Perseus had to cut off the head of the gorgon 
Medusa, whose horrifying visage and snaky 

locks turned all who gazed upon them to stone. 
He later had to overcome the dragon that 
guarded Andromeda. Theseus represented the 
young patriarchal spirit of Athens w ho had to 
brave the terrors of the Cretan labyrinth with 
its monstrous inmate, the Minotaur, which per- 
haps symbolized the unhealthy decadence of 
matriarchal Crete. (In all cultures, the laby- 
rinth has the meaning of an entangling and 
confusing representation of the world of matri- 
archal consciousness; it can be traversed only 
by those who are ready for a special initiation 
into the mysterious world of the collective un- 
conscious.) Having overcome this danger, 
Theseus rescued Ariadne, a maiden in distress. 

This rescue symbolizes the liberation of the 
anima figure from the devouring aspect of the 
mother image. Not until this is accomplished 
can a man achieve his first true capacity for 
relatedness to women. The fact that this man 
had failed adequately to separate the anima 
from the mother was emphasized in another 
dream, in which he encountered a dragon -a 
symbolic image for the “devouring" aspect of 
his attachment to his mother. This dragon pur- 
sued him, and because he had no weapon , he 
began to get the worst of the struggle. 

Significantly, however, his wife appeared in 
the dream, and her appearance somehow made 
the dragon smaller and less threatening. This 
change in the dream showed that in his mar- 
riage the dreamer was belatedly overcoming 

Some heroic battles and rescues 
from Greek myth: Far left, Perseus 
slays Medusa (on a sixth-century 
b.c. vase) ; left, Perseus with 
Andromeda (from a first-century B.C. 
mural) whom he saved from a monster. 
Right, Theseus kills the Minotaur 
(on a first-century b.c. jar) watched 
by Ariadne; below, on a Cretan coin 
(67 b c ), the Minotaur’s labyrinth. 

the attachment to his mother. In other words, 
he had to find a means of freeing the psychic 
energy attached to the mother-son relationship, 
in order to achieve a more adult relation to 
women -and, indeed, to adult society as a 
whole. The hero-dragon battle was the symbolic 
expression of this process of ‘'growing up." 

But the hero's task has an aim that goes 
beyond biological and marital adjustment. It is 
to liberate the anima as that inner component 
of the psyche that is necessary for any true 
creative achievement. In this man's case we 
have to guess the probability of this outcome 
because it is not directly stated in the dream of 
the Indian journey. But I am sure he would 
confirm my hypothesis that his journey over the 
hill and the sight of his goal as a peaceful har- 
bor town contained the rich promise that he 
would discover his authentic anima function. 
He would thus be cured of his early resentment 
at not being given protection (the rainhat) by 
the woman for his journey through India. (In 
dreams, significantly placed tow ns can often be 
anima symbols.) 

The man had won this promise of security 
for himself by his contact with the authentic 
hero archetype, and had found a new co-opera- 
tive and related attitude to the group. His sense 
of rejuvenation naturally followed. He had 
drawn on the inner source of strength that the 

hero archetype represents; he had clarified and 
developed that part of him which was symbol- 
ized by the woman; and he had, by his ego’s 
heroic act, liberated himself from his mother. 

These and many other examples of the hero 
myth in modern dreams show that the ego as 
hero is always essentially a bearer of culture 
rather than a purely egocentric exhibitionist. 
Even Trickster, in his misguided or unpurposive 
way, is a contributor to the cosmos as primitive 
man sees it. In Navaho mythology, as Coyote, 
he hurled the stars into the sky as an act of 
creation, he invented the necessary contingency 
of death, and in the myth of emergence he 
helped lead the people through the hollow reed 
whereby they escaped from one world to an- 
other above it where they were safe from the 
threat of flood. 

We have here a reference to that form of 
creative evolution which evidently begins on a 
childlike, preconscious, or animal level of exist- 
ence. The ego's rise to effective conscious action 
becomes plain in the true culture-hero. In the 
same fashion the childish or adolescent ego frees 
itself from the oppression of parental expecta- 
tions and becomes individual. As part of this 
rise to consciousness the hero-dragon battle may 
have to be fought and refought to liberate 
energy for the multitude of human tasks that 
can form a culture pattern out of chaos. 

The hero's rescue of a maiden can 
symbolize the freeing of the amma 
from the "devouring” aspect of the 
mother. This aspect is represented, 
far left, by Balinese dancers wearing 
the mask of Rangda (left), a malign 
female spirit; or by the serpent that 
swallowed and then regurgitated the 
Greek hero Jason (above). 

As in the dream discussed on p. 1 24, 
a common anima symbol is a harbor 
town Below, a poster by Marc Chagall 
pei sonifies Nice as a mermaid. 

When this is successful, we see the full hero 
image emerging as a kind of ego strength for, 
if we are speaking in collective terms, a tribal 
identity) that has no further need to overcome 
the monsters and the giants. It has reached the 
point where these deep forces can be person- 
alized. The “feminine element" no longer ap- 
pears in dreams as a dragon, but as a woman; 
similarly, the “shadow" side of the personality 
takes on a less menacing form. 

This important point is illustrated in the 
dream of a man nearing 50. All his life he had 
suffered from periodic attacks of anxiety asso- 
ciated with fear of failure (originally engen- 
dered by a doubting mother). Yet his actual 
achievements, both in his profession and in his 
personal relations, were well above average. In 
his dream his nine-year-old son appeared as a 
young man of about 18 or 19, dressed in the 
shining armor of a medieval knight. The young 
man is called upon to fight a host of men in 
black, which he prepares at first to do. Then he 
suddenly removes his helmet, and smiles at the 
leader of the menacing host; it is clear that 
they will not engage in the battle but will 
become friends. 

The son in the dream is the man's own 
youthful ego, which had frequently felt threat- 
ened by the shadow in the form of self-doubt. 
He had, in a sense, waged a successful crusade 
against this adversary all his mature life. Now, 
partly through the actual encouragement of 
seeing his son grow up without such doubts, but 
mainly by forming a suitable image of the hero 
in the form closest to his own environmental 
pattern, he finds it no longer necessary to fight 
the shadow; he can accept it. That is what is 
symbolized in the act of friendship. He is no 
longer driven to a competitive struggle for indi- 
vidual supremacy, but is assimilated to the cul- 
tural task of forming a democratic sort of com- 
munity. Such a conclusion, reached in the full- 
ness of life, goes beyond the heroic task and 
leads one to a truly mature attitude. 

This change, however, does not take place 
automatically. It requires a period of transition, 
which is expressed in the various forms of the 
archetype of initiation. 

The archetype of initiation 

In a psychological sense the hero image is not 
to be regarded as identical with the ego proper. 
It is better described as the symbolic means by 
which the ego separates itself from the arche- 
types evoked by the parental images in early 
childhood. l)r. Jung has suggested that each 
human being has originally a feeling of whole- 
ness, a powerful and complete sense of the Self. 
And from the Self - the totality of the psyche — 
the individualized ego-consciousness emerges 
as the individual grows up. 

Within the past few years, the works of 
certain followers of Jung have begun to docu- 
ment the series of events by which the indi- 
vidual ego emerges during the transition from 
infancy through childhood. This separation can 
never become final without severe injury to the 
original sense of wholeness. And the ego must 
continually return to re-establish its relation to 

i 28 

the Self in order to maintain a condition of 
psychic health. 

It would appear from my studies that the 
hero myth is the first stage in the differentia- 
tion of the psyche. I have suggested that it 
seems to go through a fourfold cycle by which 
the ego seeks to achieve its relative autonomy 
from the original condition of wholeness. Unless 
some degree of autonomy is achieved, the indi- 
vidual is unable to relate himself to his adult 
environment. But the hero myth does not 
ensure that this liberation will occur. It only 
shows how it is possible for it to occur, so that 
the ego may achieve consciousness. There re- 
mains the problem of maintaining and develop- 
ing that consciousness in a meaningful way, so 
that the individual can live a useful life and 
can achieve the necessary sense of self-distinc- 
tion in society. 

Ancient history and the rituals of contem- 
porary primitive societies have provided us with 
a wealth of material about myths and rites of 
initiation, whereby young men and women are 
weaned away from their parents and forcibly 
made members of their clan or tribe. But in 
making this break with the childhood world, 
the original parent archetype will be injured, 
and the damage must be made good by a heal- 
ing process of assimilation into the life of' the 
group. (The identity of the group and the indi- 
vidual is often symbolized by a totem animal.) 
Thus the group fulfills the claims of the injured 
archetype and becomes a kind of second parent 
to which the young are first symbolically sacri- 
ficed, only to re-emerge into a new life. 

In this “drastic ceremony, which looks very 
like a sacrifice to the powers that might hold 
the young man back," as Dr. Jung has put it, 

A primitive tribe's totem (often an 
animal) symbolizes each tribesman's 
identity with the tribal unit. Left, 
an Australian aborigine imitating 
{in a ritual dance) his tribe's totem 
—an emu. Many modern groups 
use totem-like animals as emblems: 
Below, a heraldic lion (from the 
Belgian coat of arms) on a 1 7th- 
century allegorical map of Belgium. 
Right, the falcon is the mascot of 
the American Air Force Academy's 
football team. Far right, modern 
totemistic emblems that aren't 
animals: a shop window display 
of ties, badges, etc. of British 
schools and clubs. 


we sec how the power of the original archetype 
can never he permanently overcome, in the 
manner envisaged by the hero-dragon battle, 
without a crippling sense of alienation from the 
fruit fill powers of the unconscious. We saw in 
the myth of the Twins how their hybris . ex- 
pressing excessive ego-Self separation, was cor- 
rected by their own fear of the consequences, 
which forced them back into a harmonious ego- 
Self relation. 

In tribal societies it is the initiation rite that 
most effectively solves this problem. The ritual 
takes the novice back to the deepest level of 
original mother-child identity or ego-Self iden- 
tity, thus forcing him to experience a symbolic 
death. In other words, his identity is tempo- 
rarily dismembered or dissolved in the collective 
unconscious. From this state' lie is then cere- 
monially rescued by the rite of The new birth. 
This is the first act of true' consolidation ol the 
c'go with the larger group, expressed as totem, 
clan, or tribe, or all three combined. 

The ritual, whether it is found in tribal 
groups or in more complex societies, invariably 
insists upon this rite of death and rebirth, which 
provides the novice with a “rite of passage” 
from one stage of life to the next, whether it is 
from early childhood to later childhood or from 
early to late adolescence' and from then to 

Initiatory events are not, of course, confined 
to the psychology of youth. Every new phase of 
development throughout an individual's life is 
accompanied by a repetition of the original 
conflict between the claims of the Self and the 
claims of the ego. In fact, this conflict may be 
expressed more powerfully at the period of' 
transition from early maturity to middle age 
(between 35 and 40 in our society i than at any 
other time in life. And the transition from 
middle age to old age creates again the need 
for affirmation of the difference between the 
ego and the total psyche; the hero receives his 
last call to action in defense of ego-conscious- 
ness against the approaching dissolution of life 
in death. 

At these crucial periods, the archetype 4 of 
initiation is strongly activated to provide a 
meaningful transition that offers something 
more spiritually satisfying than the adolescent 
rites with their strong secular flavor. The arche- 
typal patterns of initiation in this religious sense 
known since ancient times as "the mysteries" 
are woven into the texture of all ecclesiastical 
rituals requiring a special manner of worship at 
the time of birth, marriage, or death. 

As in our study of the hero myth, so in the 
study of initiation we must look for examples 
in the subjective experiences of modern people* 
and especially of those who have* undergone 

analysis. It is not surprising that there should 
appear, in the unconscious of someone* who is 
seeking help from a doctor specializing in 
psychic disorders, image's that duplicate the 
major patterns of initiation as we* know them 
from history. 

Perhaps the commonest of these* themes to be 
found in young pee>ple is the orde*al, or trial of 
strength. This might seem to be identical with 
what we have already noticed in modern 
dreams illustrating the here) myth, such as the 
sailor who had to submit to the* weather and to 
beatings, e>r that proof e>f fitness represented in 
the hike thremgh India of the man without a 
rain hat. We can alse> see this theme of physical 
suffering carrie'd te) its logical end in the first 
dream I discussed, when the handsome* young 
man became a human sacrifice* em an altar. 
This sacrifice resembled the* approach to initia- 
tion, but its end was obscured. It seemed te) 
re) un d off the hero cycle, to make way for a 
new the*me. 

There is one striking difference between the 
hero myth and the initiation rite. The typical 
hero figures exhaust their efforts in achieving 
the goal of their ambitions; in short, they 
become successful even if immediately after- 
ward they are punished or killed for their 
hybn.s. In contrast to this, tin 4 novice for initia- 
tion is called upon to give up willful ambition 

Primitive initiation rituals bring 
the youth into adulthood and into 
the tribe s collective identity. In 
many primitive societies, initiation 
is accomplished by circumcision (a 
symbolic sacrifice). Here are four 
stages in a circumcision rite of 
Australian aborigines. Far left, top 
and center: The boys are placed 
under blankets (a symbolic death 
from which they will be reborn). 
Bottom, they are removed and held 
by the men for the actual operation 
Left, the circumcised boys are 
given men s conical caps, a mark of 
their new status. Right, they are 
finally isolated from the tribe to 
be purified and given instruction. 


and all desire and to submit to the ordeal. He 
must be willing to experience this trial without 
hope of success. In fact, he must be prepared 
to die; and though the token of his ordeal may 
be mild (a period of fasting, the knocking out 
of a tooth, or tattooing) or agonizing (the inflic- 
tion of the wounds of circumcision, subincision, 
or other mutilations), the purpose remains 
always the same: To create the symbolic mood 
of death from which may spring the symbolic 
mood of rebirth. , 

A young man of 25 dreams of climbing a 
mountain on top of which there is a kind of 
altar. Near the altar he sees a sarcophagus with 
a statue of himself upon it. Then a veiled priest 
approaches carrying a staff on which there 
glows a living sun-disk. (Discussing the dream 
later, the young man said that climbing a 
mountain reminded him of the effort he was 
making in his analysis to achieve self-mastery.) 
To his surprise, he finds himself, as it were, 
dead, and instead of a sense of achievement he 
feels deprivation and fear. Then comes a feeling 
of strength and rejuvenation as he is bathed 
in the warm rays of the sun-disk. 

This dream shows quite succinctly the dis- 
tinction we must make between initiation and 
the hero myth. The act of climbing the moun- 
tain seems to suggest a trial of strength: It is 
the will to achieve ego-consciousness in the 
heroic phase of adolescent development. The 
patient had evidently thought that his approach 
to therapy would be like his approach to other 
tests of manhood, which he had approached in 
the competitive manner characteristic of young 
men in our society. But the scene by the altar 
corrected this mistaken assumption, showing 
him that his task is rather to submit to a power 
greater than himself He must see himself as if 
he were dead and entombed in a symbolic form 
(the sarcophagus) that recalls the archetypal 
mother as the original container of all life. Only 
by such an act of submission can he experience 
rebirth. An invigorating ritual brings him to life 
again as the symbolic son of a Sun Father. 

Here again we might confuse this with a hero 
cycle — that of the Twins, the “children of the 
Sun.” But in this case we have no indication 

that the initiate will over-reach himself. Instead, 
he has learned a lesson in humility by experi- 
encing a rite of death and rebirth that marks 
his passage from youth to maturity. 

According to his chronological age he should 
already have made this transition, but a pro- 
longed period of arrested development has held 
him back. This delay had plunged him into a 
neurosis for which he had come for treatment, 
and the dream offers him the same wise counsel 
that he could have been given by any good 
tribal medicine man — that he should give up 
scaling mountains to prove his strength and 
submit to the meaningful ritual of an initiatory 
change that could fit him for the new moral 
responsibilities of manhood. 

The theme of submission as an essential 
attitude toward promotion of the successful 
initiation rite can be clearly seen in the case of 
girls or women. Their rite of passage initially 
emphasizes their essential passivity, and this is 
reinforced by the psychological limitation on 
their autonomy imposed by the menstrual cycle. 
It has been suggested that the menstrual cycle 
may actually be the major part of initiation 
from a woman’s point of view, since it has the 
power to awaken the deepest sense of obedience 
to life’s creative power over her. Thus she will- 
ingly gives herself to her womanly function, 
much as a man gives himself to his assigned 
role in the community life of his group. 

On the other hand, the woman, no less than 
the man, has her initial trials of strength that 

A sarcophagus from second -century 
a.d. Thebes that reveals a symbolic 
connection with the archetypal Great 
Mother (the container of all life). 

The inside of the cover bears a portrait 
of the Egyptian goddess Nut; 
thus the goddess would "embrace" 
the body of the deceased (whose 
portrait is on the base, far right). 

I 3 2 

1 33 

lead to a final sacrifice for the sake of experi- 
encing the new birth. This sacrifice enables a 
woman to free herself from the entanglement of 
personal relations and fits her for a more con- 
scious role as an individual in her own right. 
In contrast, a man's sacrifice is a surrender of 
his sacred independence: He becomes more 
consciously related to woman. 

Here we come to that aspect of initiation 
which acquaints man with woman and woman 
with man in such a way as to correct some sort 
of original male-female opposition. Man's 
knowledge (Logos) then encounters woman's 
related ness (Eros) and their union is represented 
as that symbolic ritual of a sacred marriage 
which has been at the heart of initiation since 
its origins in the mystery-religions of antiquity. 
But this is exceedingly difficult for modern 
people to grasp, and it frequently takes a special 
crisis in their lives to make them understand it. 

Several patients have told me dreams in 
which the motif of sacrifice is combined w ith 
the motif of the sacred marriage. One of these 
was produced by a young man who had fallen 
in love but was unwilling to marry for fear that 
marriage would become a kind of prison pre- 
sided over by a powerful mother figure. His 
own mother had been a strong influence in his 
childhood, and his future mother-in-law pre- 
sented a similar threat. Would not his wife-to- 

Four varied initiation ceremonies: 

Top left, novices in a convent 
perform such humble duties as 
scrubbing a floor (from the 1 958 
film The Nun's Story), and have 
their hair cut off (from a medieval 
painting) Center, ship s passengers 
crossing the equator must undergo a 
"rite of passage." Bottom, American 
college freshmen in a traditional 
battle with their seniors 

Marriage can be seen as an initiation 
rite in which the man and the woman 
must submit to one another. But in 
some societies the man offsets his 
submission by ritually abducting" 
his bride— as do the Dyaksof Malaysia 
and Borneo (right, from the 1 955 
film The Lost Continent) A remnant 
of this practice exists in today's 
custom of carrying the bride across 
the threshold (far right). 

■ 3-1 

be dominate him in the same way these mothers 
had dominated their children ? 

In his dream he was engaged in a ritual 
dance along with another man and two other 
women, one of whom was his fiancee. The 
others were an older man and wife, who im- 
pressed the dreamer because, despite 4 their close- 
ness to each other, they seemed to have room 
for their individual differences, and did not 
appear to be possessive. These tw r o therefore 
represented to this young man a married stale 
that did not impose undue constraint on the 
development of the individual nature 4 of the* two 
partners. If it were possible for him to achieve 
this condition, marriage would then become 
acceptable to him. 

In the ritual dance each man faced his 
woman partner, and all four took their places 
at the corners of a square dancing gfound. As 
they danced, it became apparent that this was 
also a kind of sword dance. Each dancer had 
in his hand a short sword with which to per- 
form a difficult arabesque, moving arms and 
legs in a series of movements that suggested 
alternate impulses of aggression and submission 
to each other. In the final scene of the dance 
all four dancers had to plunge the swords into 
their own breasts and die. Only the dreamer 
refused to accomplish the final suicide 4 , and was 
left standing alone after the others had fallen. 

He felt deeply ashamed of his cowardly failure 
to sacrifice himself w ith the others. 

This dream brought home to my patient the 
fact that he was more than ready to change 
his attitude to life. He had been self-centered, 
seeking the illusory safety of* personal indepen- 
dence 4 but inwardly dominated by the fears 
caused by childhood subjection to his mother. 
He needed a challenge to his manhood in order 
to see that unless he 4 sacrificed his childish state* 
of mind lu* would be* left isolated and ashamed. 
The 4 dream, and his subsequent insight into its 
meaning, dispelled his doubts. He had passed 
through the 4 symbolic rite 4 by which a young 
man gives up his exclusive* autonomy and 
accepts his shared life 4 in a related, not just 
heroic, form. 

And so he 4 married and found appropriate 
fulfillment in his relationship with his wife. Far 
from impairing his effectiveness in the* world, 
his marriage 4 actually enhanced it. 

Quite apart from the* neuuotic fear that 
invisible* mothers or lalhcTs may be* lurking 
behind the* marriage* veil, even the* normal 
voung man has good re*ason to fe*c*l apprehen- 
sive about the wedding ritual. It is e 4 ssc*ntially 
a woman's initiation rite*, in which a man is 
bound to feed like anything but a conquering 
hero. No wonder we* find, in tribal societie-s, 
such counlcrphobic rituals as the* abduction or 

rape of the bride. These enable the man to 
cling to the remnants of his heroic role at the 
very moment that he must submit to his bride 
and assume the responsibilities of marriage. 

But the theme of marriage is an image of 
such universality that it also has a deeper mean- 
ing. It is an acceptable, even necessary, sym- 
bolic discovery of the feminine component of a 
man’s own psyche, just as much as it is the 
acquisition of a real wife. So one may encoun- 
ter this archetype in a man of any age in 
response to a suitable stimulus. 

Not all women, however, react trustingly to 
the married state. A woman patient who had 
unfulfilled longings for a career, which she had 
had to give up for a very difficult and short- 
lived marriage, dreamed that she was kneeling 
opposite a man who was also kneeling. He had 
a ring that he prepared to put on her finger, 
but she stretched out her right-hand ring finger 
in a tense manner — evidently resisting this 
ritual of marital union. 

It was easy to point out her significant error. 
Instead of offering the left-hand ring finger (by 

which she could accept a balanced and natural 
relation to the masculine principle) she had 
wrongly assumed that she had to put her entire 
conscious (i.e. right-sided) identity in the ser- 
vice of the man. In fact, marriage required her 
to share with him only that subliminal, natural 
(i.e. left-sided) part of herself in which the 
principle of union would have a symbolic, not 
a literal or absolute, meaning. Her fear was the 
fear of the woman who dreads to lose her 
identity in a strongly patriarchal marriage, 
which this woman had good reason to resist. 

Nevertheless, the sacred marriage as an 
archetypal form has a particularly important 
meaning for the psychology of women, and one 
for which they are prepared during their ado- 
lescence by many preliminary events of an 
initiatory character. 

The archetypal sacred marriage (the 
union of opposites, of the male and 
female principles) represented here 
by a 1 9th-century Indian sculpture 
of the deities Siva and Parvati. 

Beauty and the Beast 

Girls in our society share in the masculine hero 
myths because, like boys, they must also de- 
velop a reliable ego-identity and acquire an 
education. But there is an older layer of the 
mind that seems to come to the surface in their 
feelings, with the aim of making them into 
women, not into imitation men. When this 
ancient content of the psyche begins to make 
its appearance, the modern young woman may 
repress it because it threatens to cut her off' 
from the emancipated equality of friendship 
and opportunity to compete with men that 
have become her modern privileges. 

This repression may be so successful that for 
a time she will maintain an identification with 
the masculine intellectual goals she learned at 
school or college. Even when she marries, she 
will preserve some illusion of freedom, despite 
her ostensible act of submission to the archetype 
of marriage — with its implicit injunction to 
become a mother. And so there may occur, as 
we very frequently see today, that conflict 
which in the end forces the woman to redis- 
cover her buried womanhood in a painful (but 
ultimately rewarding) manner. 

I saw an example of this in a young married 
woman who did not yet have any children but 
who intended to have one or two eventually, 
because it would be expected of her. Mean- 
while her sexual response was unsatisfactory. 
This worried her and her husband, though they 
were unable to offer any explanation for it. 
She had graduated with honors from a good 
women’s college and enjoyed a life of intellec- 
tual companionship with her husband and other 
men. Although this side of her life went well 
enough much of the time, she had occasional 
outbursts of temper and talked in an aggressive 
fashion that alienated men and gave her an in- 
tolerable feeling of dissatisfaction with herself. 

She had a dream at this time that seemed so 
important she sought professional advice to 
understand it. She dreamed she was in a line 

of young women like herself, and as she looked 
ahead to where they were going she saw that as 
each came to the head of the line she was de- 
capitated by a guillotine. Without any fear the 
dreamer remained in the line, presumably quite 
willing to submit to the same treatment when 
her turn came. 

I explained to her that this meant she was 
ready to give up the habit of “living in her 
head”; she must learn to free her body to dis- 
cover its natural sexual response and the fulfill- 
ment of its biological role in motherhood. The 
dream expressed this as the need to make a 
drastic change; she had to sacrifice the “mascu- 
line” hero role. 

As one might expect, this educated woman 
had no difficulty in accepting this interpretation 
at an intellectual level, and she set about trying 
to change herself into a more submissive kind 
of woman. She did then improve her love-life 
and became the mother of two very satisfactory 
children. As she grew to know herself better, 
she began to see that for a man (or the mascu- 
line-trained mind in women) life is something 
that has to be taken by storm, as an act of the 
heroic will ; but for a woman to feel right about 
herself, life is best realized by a process of 

A universal myth expressing this kind of 
awakening is found in the fairy tale of Beauty 
and the Beast. The best-known version of this 
story relates how Beauty, the youngest of four 
daughters, becomes her father’s favorite because 
of her unselfish goodness. When she asks her 
father only for a white rose, instead of the more 
costly presents demanded by the others, she is 
aware only of her inner sincerity of feeling. She 
docs not know that she is about to endanger 
her father’s life and her ideal relation with him. 
For he steals the white rose from the enchanted 
garden of Beast, who is stirred to anger by the 
theft and requires him to return in three 
months for his punishment, presumably death. 

l 37 

fin allowing the father this reprieve to go 
home with his gilt. Beast behaves out of char- 
acter, especially when he also oilers to send him 
a trunk full of gold when he gets home. As 
Beauty's father comments, the Beast seems cruel 
and kind at the same time.) 

Beauty insists upon taking her lather’s pun- 
ishment and returns after three months to the 
enchanted castle. There she is given a beautiful 
room where she has no worries and nothing to 
fear except the occasional visits of Beast, who 
repeatedly comes to ask her if she will someday 
marry him. She always refuses. Then, seeing in 
a magic mirror a picture of her father lying ill, 
she begs Beast to allow her to return to comfort 
him, promising to return in a week. Beast tells 
her that he w ill die if she deserts him, but she 
may go for a week. 

At home, her radiant presence brings joy to 
her father and envy to her sisters, who plot to 
detain her longer than her promised stav. At 
length she dreams that Beast is dying ol despair. 
So, realizing she has overstayed her time, she 
returns to resuscitate him. 

Quite forgetting the dying Beast's ugliness. 
Beauty ministers to him. He tells her that lie 
was unable to live without her. and that he will 
die happy now that she has returned. But 
Beauty realizes that she* cannot live without 
Beast, that she has fallen in love with him. She 
tells him so, and promises to be his wife if onlv 
he will not die. 

At this the castle is filled with a blaze of light 
and the sound of' music, and Beast disappears. 
In his place stands a handsome prince, who 
tells Beauty that he had been enchanted by a 
witch and turned into the Beast. The spell was 
ordained to last until a beautiful girl should 
love Beast for his goodness alone*. 

In this story, if' we unravel th e symbolism, we 
are likelv to sea* that Beauty is any young girl 
or woman w ho lias entered into an emotional 
bond with her father, no less binding because 
of its spiritual nature. Her goodness is symbol- 
ized by her request for a white* rose, but in a 
significant twist of' meaning her unconscious 
intention puls her lather and then herself in 
the power of a principle* that expresses not 
goodness alone, but cruelty and kindness com- 
bined. It is as if she* wishe*d to be* re'seued from 
a ]e>ve* holding her to an exclusively virtuous 
and unreal attitude*. 

By learning te> love Beast she* awakens te> the 
power of human love* concealed in its animal 
i and therefore imperfect! but genuinely erotic 
form. Presumably this represents an awakening 
of her true* function of relatedness, enabling her 
to ac c e pt the* e*re)tic component of her original 
wish, which had to be* repressed be*cause ol a 
fear ol incest. Te> leave* her father she* had. as 
it were*, to accept the* incest-fear. to allow her- 
self to live in its presence* in fantasy until she* 
could ge t to know the* animal man and discover 
her DWti true* response to it as a woman. 

Three scenes from the 1 946 film of 
Beauty and the Beast (directed by 
France’s Jean Cocteau): Left, 
Beauty's father caught stealing the 
white rose from the Beast's garden, 
right, the Beast dying; far right, 
the Beast transformed into a Prince, 
walking with Beauty. The story can 
be said to symbolize a young girl's 
initiation — i.e her release from 
her bond with the father, in order 
to come to terms with the erotic 
animal side of her nature Until this 
is done, she cannot achieve a true 
relationship with a man. 

In this way she redeems herself and her 
imam* ol the inaseuline from the forces of re- 
pression. bringing to consciousness her capacitv 
to trust her love as something tliat combines 
spirit and nature in the best sense of the words. 

A dream of an emancipated woman patient 
of mine represented this need to remove the 
incest-fear, a very real fear in this patient's 
thoughts, because of her father's over-dose 
attachment to her following his wife's death. 
The dream showed her being chased by a furi- 
ous bull. She fled at first, but realized it was no 
use. She fell and the bull was upon her. She 
knew her only hope was to sing to the bull, and 
when she did, though in a quavering voice, the 
bull calmed down and began licking her hand 
with its tongue. The interpretation showed that 
she could now learn to relate to men in a more 
confidently feminine way not only sexually, 
hut erotically in the w ider sense of relatedness 
on the level of her conscious identity. 

But in the cases of older women, tin* Beast 
theme may not indicate the need to find the 
answer to a personal fixation or to release 
a sexual inhibition, or any of the things that 
the psychoanalytically minded rationalist may 
sec in the myth. It can Ik*, in fact, the expres- 
sion ol a certain kind of woman's initiation, 
which may be just as meaningful at the onset 
of the menopause as at the height of adoles- 
cence; and it may appear at any age, when the 
union of spirit and nature has been disturbed. 

A woman of* menopausal age reported the 
following dream : 

I am with several anonymous women whom I 
don't seem to know. We go downstairs in a 
strange house, and are confronted suddenly by 
some grotesque “ape-men" with evil faces dressed 
in fur with gray and black rings, with tails, hor- 
rible and leering. We are completely in their 
power, hut suddenly I feel the only way we can 
save ourselves is not to panic and run or light, 
hut to treat these creatures with humanity as il 
to make them aware of their better side. So one 
of the ape-men comes up to me and I greet him 
like a dancing partner and begin to dance with 

Later, I have been given supernatural healing 
powers and there is a man who is at death's door. 
I have a kind ol* quill or perhaps a bird's beak 
through which I blow air into his nostrils and he* 
begins to breathe again. 

During the years of her marriage* and the 
raising of her children, this woman had been 
obliged to ncglcd her creative gilt, w ith which 
she had once made a small but genuine reputa- 
tion as a w riter. At the* time of* her dream she 
had been trving to force herself back to work 
again, at the* same time critic izing herself un- 
mercifullv for not be ing a belter wile*, friend, 
and mother. The dream showed her problem 
in the* light of other women who might be* going 
through a similar transition, descending, as the* 
dream puts it, into the* lower regions of a 
strange* house* from a too highly conscious level. 

This we can guess to be the entrance to some 
meaningful aspect of the collective unconscious, 
with its challenge to accept the masculine prin- 
ciple as animal-man, that same heroic, clown- 
like Trickster figure we met at the beginning 
of the primitive hero cycles. 

For her to relate to this ape-man, and hu- 
manize him by bringing out what is good in 
him, meant that she would first have to accept 
some unpredictable element of her natural 
creative spirit. With this she could cut across 
the conventional bonds of her life and learn to 
write in a new way, more appropriate for her 
in the second part of life. 

That this impulse is related to the creative 
masculine principle is shown in the second scene 
where she resuscitates a man by blowing air 
through a kind of bird's beak into his nose. 
This pneumatic procedure suggests the need for 
a revival of the spirit rather than the principle 
of erotic warmth. It is a symbolism known all 
over the world: The ritual act brings the 
creative breath of life to any new achievement. 

The dream of another woman emphasizes 
the “nature" aspect of Beauty and the Beast: 

Something flies or is thrown in through the 
window, like a large insect with whirling spiral 
legs, yellow and black. It then becomes a queer 
animal, striped yellow and black, like a tiger, with 
bear-like, almost human paws and a pointed wolf- 
like face. It may run loose and harm children. 
It is Sunday afternoon, and I see a little girl all 
dressed in white on her way to Sunday school. 
I must get the police to help. 

But then I see the creature has become part 
woman, part animal. It fawns upon me, wants to 
be loved. I feel it's a fairy-tale situation, or a 
dream, and only kindness can transform it. I try 
to embrace it warmly, but I can't go through with 
it. I push it away. But I have the feeling I must 
keep it near and get used to it and maybe some- 
day I'll be able to kiss it. 

Here we have a different situation from the 
previous one. This woman had been too inten- 
sively carried away by the masculine creative 
function within herself, which had become a 
compulsive, mental (that is, “air-borne”) pre- 
occupation. Thus she has been prevented from 

discharging her feminine, wifely function in a 
natural way. (In association to this dream she 
said: “When my husband comes home, my 
creative side goes underground and I become 
the over-organized housewife.”) Her dream 
takes this unexpected turn of transforming her 
spirit gone bad into the woman she must accept 
and cultivate in herself; in this way she can 
harmonize her creative intellectual interests 
with the instincts that enable her to relate 
warmly to others. 

This involves a new acceptance of the dual 
principle of life in nature, of that which is cruel 
but kind, or, as we might say in her case, ruth- 
lessly adventurous but at the same time humbly 
and creatively domestic. These opposites obvi- 
ously cannot be reconciled except on a highly 
sophisticated psychological level of awareness, 
and would of course be harmful to that inno- 
cent child in her Sunday-school dress. 

The interpretation one could place on this 
woman's dream is that she needed to overcome 
some excessively naive image of herself. She had 
to be willing to embrace the full polarity of her 
feelings— just as Beauty had to give up the 
innocence of trusting in a father who could not 
give her the pure white rose of his feeling with- 
out awakening the beneficent fury of the Beast. 

Above, the Greek god Dionysus 
ecstatically playing the lute (in a 
vase painting). The frenzied and 
orgiastic rites of the Dionysiac 
cults symbolized initiation into 
nature's mysteries. Right, Maenads 
worshiping Dionysus; far right, 
satyrs in the same wild worship. 



Orpheus and the Son of Man 

“Beauty and the Beast” is a fairy tale with the 
quality of a wild flower, appearing so unexpect- 
edly and creating in us such a natural sense of 
wonder that we do not notice for the moment 
that it belongs to a definite class, genus, and 
species of plant. The kind of mystery inherent 
in such a story is given a universal application 
not only in a larger historical myth, but also in 
the rituals whereby the myth is expressed or 
from which it may be derived. 

The type of ritual and myth appropriately 
expressing this type of psychological experience 
is exemplified in the Greco-Roman religion of 
Dionysus, and in its successor, the religion of 
Orpheus. Both of these religions provided a 
significant initiation of the type known as “mys- 
teries.” They brought forth symbols associated 
with a god-man of androgynous character who 
was supposed to have an intimate understand- 
ing of the animal or plant world and to be 
the master of initiation into their secrets. 

The Dionysiac religion contained orgiastic 
rites that implied the need for an initiate to 

abandon himself to his animal nature and 
thereby experience the full fertilizing power of 
the Earth Mother. The initiating agent for this 
rite of passage in the Dionysiac ritual was wine. 
It was supposed to produce the symbolic lower- 
ing of consciousness necessary to introduce the 
novice into the closely guarded secrets of 
nature, whose essence was expressed by a sym- 
bol of' erotic fulfillment: the god Dionysus 
joined with Ariadne, his consort, in a sacred 
marriage ceremony. 

In time the rites of Dionysus lost their emo- 
tive religious power. There emerged an almost 
oriental longing for liberation from their exclu- 
sive preoccupation with the purely natural sym- 
bols of life and love. The Dionysiac religion, 
shifting constantly from spiritual to physical 
and back again, perhaps proved too wild and 
turbulent for some more ascetic souls. These 
came to experience their religious ecstasies in- 
wardly, in the worship of Orpheus. 

Orpheus was probably a real man, a singer, 
prophet, and teacher, who was martyred and 


whose tomb became a shrine. No wonder the 
early Christian church saw in Orpheus the pro- 
totype of Christ. Both religions brought to the 
late Hellenistic world the promise of a future 
divine life. Because they were men, yet also 
mediators of the divine, for the multitudes of 
the dying Grecian culture in the days of the 
Roman Empire they held the longed-for hope 
of a future life. 

There was, however, one important differ- 
ence between the religion of* Orpheus and the 
religion of Christ. Though sublimated into a 
mystical form, the Orphic mysteries kept alive 
the old Dionvsiac religion. The spiritual im- 
petus came from a demi-god. in whom was 
preserved the most significant quality of a 
religion rooted in the art of agriculture. That 
quality was the old pattern of the fertility gods 
who came only for the season in other words, 
the eternally recurrent cycle of birth, growth, 
fullness, and decay. 

Christianity, on the other hand, dispelled the 
mysteries. Christ was the product and reformer 
of a patriarchal, nomadic, pastoral religion, 
whose prophets represented their Messiah as a 
being of absolutely divine origin. The Son of 
Man, though born of a human virgin, had his 
beginning in heaven, whence he came in an 

act of God's incarnation in man. After his 
death, he returned to heaven but returned 
once and lor all, to reign on the right hand of 
God until the Second Coming ‘"when the dead 
shall arise." 

Of course the asceticism of early Christianity 
did not last. The memory of the cyclic mysteries 
haunted its followers to the extent that the 
Church eventually had to incorporate many 
practices from the pagan past into its rituals. 
The most meaningful of* these may be found in 
the old records of what was done on Holy 
Saturday and Raster Sunday in celebration of 
the resurrection of Christ the baptismal ser- 
vice that the mediev al church made into a suit- 
able and deeply meaningful initiation rile. But 
that ritual has scarcely survived into modern 
times, and it is completely absent in Pro- 

The ritual that has survived much better, 
and that still contains the meaning of a central 
initiation mystery for the devout, is the Catholic 
practice of the elevation of the chalice. It has 
been described by Dr. Jung in his "Transfor- 
mation Symbolism in the Mass": 

" The lifting up of the chalice in tin* air pre- 
pares the spiritualization . . . of the wine. This 
is confirmed by the invocation to the Holy 

t 4 2 


Ghost that immediately follows. . . . The invo- 
cation serves to infuse the' wine' with holy spirit, 
for it is the Holy Ghost who begets, fulfills, and 
transforms. . . . After the elevation, the chalice 
was, in former times, set down to the right of 
the Host, to correspond with the blood that 
flowed from the right side of Christ." 

The ritual of communion is everywhere the 
same, whether it is expressed bv drinking of the 
cup of Dionysus or of the holy Christian cha- 
lice; but the level of awareness each brings to 
the individual participant is different. The 
Dionysiac participant looks back to the origin 
of things, to the “storm-birth'' of the god who 
is blasted from the resistant womb of Mother 
Earth. In the frescoes of the Villa de Misteri in 
Pompeii, the enacted rite evoked the god as a 
mask of terror reflected in the cup of Dionysus 
offered by the priest to the initiate. Later we 
find the winnowing basket, with its precious 
fruits of the earth, and the phallus as creative 
symbols of the god's manifestation as the prin- 
ciple of breeding and growth. 

In contrast to this backward look, with its 
central focus on nature's eternal cycle of birth 
and death, the Christian mystery points for- 
ward to the initiate's ultimate hope of union 
with a transcendent god. Mother Nature, with 

Above, a Dionysiac ritual depicted 
on the great fresco in the Villa 
of the Mysteries at Pompeii. In 
the center an initiate is offered 
the ceremonial cup of Dionysus, in 
which he sees a reflection of the 
god-mask held behind. This is a 
symbolic infusion of the drink with 
the god s spirit — which can be said 
to parallel the Roman Catholic 
ceremony of elevating the chalice 
during Mass (below) 


Left, Orpheus charming the beasts 
with his song (in a Roman mosaic); 
above, the murder of Orpheus by 
Thracian women (on a Greek vase). 
Below left Christ as the Good 
Shepherd (a sixth-century mosaic). 
Both Orpheus and Christ parallel 
the archetype of the man of nature 
— also reflected in the painting by 
Cranach (below) of "natural man’s" 
innocence. Facing page, left, the 
18th-century French philosopher 
Rousseau, who put forward the idea 
of the "noble savage" — the simple 
child of nature free of sin and evil. 

Far right, the title page of Walden, 
by the 1 9th -century American writer 
Thoreau, who believed in and followed 
a natural way of life almost wholly 
independent of civilization. 


all her beautiful seasonal changes, has been left 
behind, and the central figure of Christianity 
offers spiritual certainty, for he is the Son of 
God in heaven. 

Yet the two somehow fuse in the figure of 
Orpheus, the god who remembers Dionysus but 
looks forward to Christ. The psychological 
sense of this intermediate figure has been de- 
scribed by the Swiss author Linda Fierz-David, 
in her interpretation of the Orphic rite pictured 
in the Villa de Misteri: 

“Orpheus taught while he sang and played 
the lyre, and his singing was so powerful that 
it mastered all nature; when he sang to his 
lyre the birds flew about him, the fish left the 
water and sprang to him. The wind and the 
sea became still, the rivers flowed upward to- 
ward him. It did not snow' and there was no 
hail. Trees and the very stones followed after 
Orpheus; tiger and lion lay down near him 
next to the sheep, and the wolves next to the 
stag and the roe. Now what does this mean? 
It surely means that through a divine insight 
into the meaning of natural events . . . nature's 
happenings become harmoniously ordered from 
within. Everything becomes light and all crea- 
tures appeased when the mediator, in the 
act of worshiping, represents the light of nature. 
Orpheus is an embodiment of devotion and 
piety; he symbolizes the religious attitude that 
solves all conflicts, since thereby the whole soul 
is turned toward that which lies on the other 
side of all conflict. . . . And as he does this, he 
is truly Orpheus; that is, a good shepherd, his 
primitive embodiment. . . 

Both as good shepherd and as mediator, 
Orpheus strikes the balance between the Dio- 
nysiac religion and the Christian religion, since 
we find both Dionysus and Christ in similar 
roles, though, as I have said, differently orien- 
ted as to time and direction in space one a 
cyclic religion of the nether world, the other 
heavenly and eschatological, or final. This series 
of initiatory events, drawn from the context of 
religious history, is repeated endlessly and with 
practically every conceivable individual tw ist of 
meaning in the dreams and fantasies of modern 

In a state of heavy fatigue and depression, a 
woman undergoing analysis had this fantasy: 

I sit on the side of a long narrow table in a 
high vaulted room with no window. \ly body is 
hunched over and shrunken. There is nothing 
over me but a long white linen cloth that hangs 
from my shoulders to the floor. Something crucial 
has happened to me. There is not much life left 
in me. Red crosses on gold disks appear before 
mv eyes. I recall that 1 have made some sort of 
commitment a long time ago and wherever I am 
now’ must be part of this. I sit there a long time. 

Now I slowly open my eyes and I see a man 
who sits beside me who is to heal me. He appears 
natural and kind and he is talking to me though 
1 don’t hear him. He seems to know all about 
where I have been. I am aware that I am very 
ugly and that there must be an odor of death 
around me. I wonder if he will be repelled. I look 
at him for a very long time. He does not turn 
away. I breathe more easily. 

Then I feel a cool breeze, or cool water, pour 
over my body. I wrap the white linen cloth across 
me now and prepare for a natural sleep. The 
man’s healing hands are on my shoulders. I recall 
vaguely that there was a time when there were 
wounds there but the pressure of his hands seems 
to give me strength and healing. 

This woman had previously felt threatened 
by doubts about her original religious affilia- 
tion. She had been brought up as a devout 



Catholic of the old school, but since her youth 
she had struggled to free herself from the 
formal religious conventions followed by her 
family. Yet the symbolic events of the church 
year and the richness of her insight into their 
meaning remained with her throughout the 
process of her psychological change; and in her 
analysis I found this working knowledge of 
religious symbolism most helpful. 

The significant elements she singled out of' 
her fantasy were the white cloth, which she 
understood as a sacrificial cloth; the vaulted 
room, which she considered to be a tomb; and 
her commitment, which she associated with the 
experience of submission. This commitment, as 
she called it, suggested a ritual of initiation with 
a perilous descent into the vault of death, which 
symbolized the way she had left church and 
family to experience God in her own fashion. 
She had undergone an “imitation of Christ" in 
the true symbolic sense, and like him she had 
suffered the wounds that preceded this death. 

The sacrificial cloth suggests the winding 
sheet or shroud in which the crucified Christ 
was wrapped and then placed in the tomb. The 
end of the fantasy introduces the healing figure 
of a man, loosely associated with me as her 
analyst but appearing also in his natural role 
as a friend fully aware of her experience. He 
speaks to her in words she cannot yet hear, but 
his hands are reassuring and give a sense of 
healing. One senses in this figure the touch and 
the word of the good shepherd, Orpheus or 
Christ, as mediator and also, of course, as 
healer. He is on the side of life and has to con- 
vince her that she may now come back from 
the vault of death. 

Shall we call this rebirth or resurrection? 
Both, perhaps, or neither. The essential rite pro- 
claims itself at the end: The cool breeze or 
water flowing over her body is the primordial 
act of purification or cleansing of the sin of 
death, the essence of true baptism. 

The same woman had another fantasy in 
which she felt that her birthday fell upon the 
day of Christ’s resurrection. (This was much 
more meaningful for her than the memory of 
her mother, who had never given her the feel- 


ing of reassurance and renewal she so much 
wished for on her childhood birthdays.) But 
this did not mean she identified herself with 
the figure of Christ. For all his power and 
glory, something was lacking; and as she tried 
to reach him through prayer, he and his 
cross were lifted up to heaven out of her 
human reach. 

In this second fantasy she fell back upon the 
symbol of rebirth as a rising sun, and a new 
feminine symbol began to make its appearance. 
First of all it appeared as an “embryo in a 
watery sack/' Then she was carrying an eight- 
year-old boy through the water “passing a 
danger point.” Then a new movement occurred 
in which she no longer felt threatened or under 
the influence of death. She was “in a forest by 
a little spring waterfall . . . green vines grow all 
around. In my hands I have a stone bowl in 
which there is spring water, some green moss, 
and violets. I bathe myself under the waterfall. 
It is golden and ‘silky’ and I feel like a child.” 

The sense of these events is clear, though it is 
possible to miss the inner meaning in the cryp- 
tic description of so many changing images. 
Here we have, it seems, a process of rebirth in 
which a larger spiritual self is reborn and bap- 
tized in nature as a child. Meanwhile she has 
rescued an older child who was, in some way, 
her own ego at the most traumatic period of 
her childhood. She then carried it through 
water past the danger point, thus indicating her 
fear of a paralyzing sense of guilt if she should 

depart too far from her family’s conventional 
religion. But religious symbolism is significant 
by its absence. All is in the hands of nature ; we 
are clearly in the realm of the shepherd 
Orpheus rather than the risen Christ. 

A dream followed this sequence, which 
brought her to a church resembling the church 
in Assisi with Giotto’s frescoes of St. Francis. 
She felt more at home here than she would in 
other churches because St. Francis, like 
Orpheus, was a religious man of nature. This 
revived her feelings about the change in her 
religious affiliation that had been so painful to 
undergo, but now she believed she could joy- 
fully face the experience, inspired by the light 
of nature. 

The series of dreams ended with a distant 
echo of the religion of Dionysus. (One could 
say that this was a reminder that even Orpheus 
can at times be a little too far removed from 
the fecundating power of the animal-god in 
man.) She dreamed that she was leading a fair- 
haired child by the hand. “We are happily 
participating in a festival that includes the sun 
and the forests and flowers all around. The 
child has a little white flower in her hand, and 
she places it on the head of a black bull. The 
bull is part of the festival and is covered with 
festive decorations.” This reference recalls the 
ancient rites that celebrated Dionysus in the 
guise of a bull. 

But the dream did not end there. The 
woman added: “Some time later the bull is 

Above left, the Persian god Mithras 
sacrificing the bull. The sacrifice 
(also part of Dionysiac rites) can 
be seen as a symbol of the victory 
of man's spiritual nature over his 
animality — of which the bull is a 
common symbol. (This may explain 
the popularity in some countries 
of bullfighting, left.) Right, an 
etching by Picasso (1 935) depicts 
a girl threatened by a Minotaur — 
here, as in the myth of Theseus, 
a symbol of man's uncontrollable 
instinctive forces. 

pierced by a golden arrow.” Now, besides 
Dionysus, there is another pre-Christian rite in 
which the bull plays a symbolic role. The Per- 
sian sun-god Mithras sacrifices a bull. He, like 
Orpheus, represents the longing for a life of 
the spirit that might triumph over the primitive 
animal passions of man and, after a ceremony 
of initiation, give him peace. 

This series of images confirms a suggestion 
that is found in many fantasy or dream 
sequences of this type that there is no final 
peace, no resting point. In their religious quest 
men and women — especially those who live in 
modern Western Christianized societies are 
still in the power of those early traditions that 
strive within them for supremacy. It is a con- 
flict of pagan or Christian beliefs, or, one might 
say, of rebirth or resurrection. 

A more direct clue to the solution of* this 
dilemma is to be found, in this woman s first 
fantasy, in a curious piece of symbolism that 
could easily be overlooked. The woman says 
that in her death vault she saw before her eyes 
a vision of red crosses on gold disks. As became 
clear later in her analysis, she was about to ex- 
perience a profound psychic change and to 
emerge out of this “death” into a new kind of 
life. We might imagine, therefore, that this 
image, which came to her in the depth of her 
despair of life, should in some way herald her 
future religious attitude. In her subsequent work 
she did in fact produce evidence for thinking 
that the red crosses represented her devotion to 
the Christian attitude, while the gold disks re- 
presented her devotion to the pre-Christian 
mystery religions. Her vision had told her that 
she must reconcile these Christian and pagan 
elements in the new life that lay ahead. 

One last, but important, observation con- 
cerns the ancient initiation rites and their rela- 
tion to Christianity. The initiation rite cele- 
brated in the Eleusinian mysteries (the rites of 
worship of the fertility goddesses Demeter and 
Persephone) was not considered appropriate 
merely for those who sought to live life more 
abundantly; it was also used as a preparation 
for death, as if death also required an initia- 
tory rite of passage of the same kind. 

On a funeral urn found in a Roman grave 
near the Columbarium on the Esquiline Hill we 
find a clear bas-relief representing scenes of the 
final stage of initiation where the novice is 
admitted to the presence and converse of the 
goddesses. The rest of the design is devoted to 
two preliminary ceremoniesofpurification the 
sacrifice of the “mystic pig,” and a mysticized 
version of the sacred marriage. This all points 
to an initiation into death, but in a form that 
lacks the finality of mourning. It hints at that 
element of the later mysteries — especially of 
Orphism — which makes death carry a promise 
of immortality. Christianity went even further. 
It promised something more than immortality 
(which in the old sense of the cyclic mysteries 
might merely mean reincarnation ), for it offered 
the faithful an everlasting life in heaven. 

So we see again, in modern life, the tendency 
to repeat old patterns. Those who have to learn 
to face death may have to relearn the old mes- 
sage that tells us that death is a mystery for 
which we must prepare ourselves in the same 
spirit of submission and humility as we once 
learned to prepare ourselves for life. 


Symbols of transcendence 

The symbols that influence man vary in their 
purpose. Some men need to be aroused, and 
experience their initiation in the violence of a 
Dionvsiac “thunder rite." Others need to be 
subdued, and they are brought to submission in 
the ordered design of temple precinct or sacred 
cave, suggestive of the Apollonian religion of 
later Greece. A full initiation embraces both 
themes, as we can see when we look either at 
the material drawn from ancient texts or at 
living subjects. But it is quite certain that the 
fundamental goal of initiation lies in taming the 
original Trickster-like wildness of the juvenile 
nature. It therefore has a civilizing or spiritu- 
alizing purpose, in spite of the violence of the 
rites that are required to set this process in 

There is, however, another kind ofsymbolism, 
belonging to the earliest known sacred tradi- 
tions, that is also connected with the periods of 

transition in a person's life. But these symbols 
do not seek to integrate the initiate with any 
religious doctrine or secular group-conscious- 
ness. On the contrary, they point to man's need 
for liberation from any state of being that is 
too immature, too fixed or final. I n other words, 
they concern man's release from or transcend- 
ence of any confining pattern of existence, as 
he moves toward a superior or more mature 
stage in his development. 

A child, as I have said, possesses a sense of 
completeness, but only before the initial emer- 
gence of his ego-consciousness. In the case of an 
adult, a sense of completeness is achieved 
through a union of the consciousness with the 
unconscious contents of the mind. Out of this 
union arises what Jung called “the transcend- 
ent function of the psyche," by which a man 
can achieve his highest goal : the full realization 
of the potential of his individual Self. 

Both a bird and a shaman (i.e. a 
primitive medicine man) are 
common symbols of transcendence, 
and often are combined: Left, a 
prehistoric cave painting at Lascaux 
shows a shaman in a bird mask Below, 
a shaman priestess of a Siberian 
people, in a bird costume. Right, 
a shaman's coffin (also Siberian) 
with bird figures on the posts. 



Thus, what we call “symbols of transcend- 
ence” are the symbols that represent man's 
striving to attain this goal. They provide the 
means by which the contents of the unconscious 
can enter the conscious mind, and they also 
are themselves an active expression of those 

These symbols are manifold in form. Whether 
we encounter them in history or in the dreams 
of contemporary men and women who are at a 
critical stage in their lives, we can see their 
importance. At the most archaic level of this 
symbolism we again meet the Trickster theme. 
But this time he no longer appears as a lawless 
would-be hero. He has become the shaman- 
the medicine man — whose magical practices 
and flights of intuition stamp him as a primitive 
master of initiation. His power resides in his 
supposed ability to leave his body and fly about 
the universe as a bird. 

In this case the bird is the most fitting symbol 
of transcendence. It represents the pecu- 
liar nature of intuition working through a 
“medium,” that is, an individual who is capable 
of obtaining knowledge of distant events — or 
facts of which he consciously knows nothing— 
by going into a trancelike state. 

Evidence of such powers can be found as far 
back as the paleolithic period of prehistory, as 
the American scholar Joseph Campbell has 
pointed out in commenting upon one of the 
famous cave paintings recently discovered in 
France. At Lascaux, he writes, “there is a sha- 
man depicted, lying in a trance, wearing a bird 
mask with a figure of a bird perched on a staff 
beside him. The shamans of Siberia wear such 
bird costumes to this day, and many are be- 
lieved to have been conceived by their mothers 
from the descent of a bird .... The shaman, 
then, is not only a familiar denizen, but even 
the favored scion of those realms of power that 
are invisible to our normal waking conscious- 
ness, which all may visit briefly in vision, but 
through which he roams, a master.” 

At the highest level of this type of initiatory 
activity, far from those tricks-of-the-trade by 
which magic so frequently replaces true spiritual 
insight, we find the Hindu master yogis. In 
their trance states they go far beyond the nor- 
mal categories of thought. 

One of the commonest dream symbols for 
this type of release through transcendence is the 
theme of the lonely journey or pilgrimage, 
which somehow seems to be a spiritual pilgrim- 

ln myths or dreams, a lonely journey 
often symbolizes the liberation of 
transcendence. Above left, a 1 5th-century 
painting of the poet Dante 
holding his book (the Divine Comedy) 
which relates his dream of a journey 
to hell (lower left of picture), 
purgatory, and heaven. Far left, an 
engraving of the journey made by the 
pilgrim in the British author John 
Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress ( 1 678) . 

(Note that the journey is^a circular 
movement toward an inner center.) 

This book, too, is told as a dream; 
left, the pilgrim dreaming. 

Many people want some change 
from a containing pattern of life; 
but the freedom gained by travel 
(urged by the “run away to sea" 
poster, right) is no substitute 
for a true inner liberation. 

■ 5 1 

age on which the initiate becomes acquainted 
with the nature of death. But this is not death 
as a last judgment or other initiatory trial of 
strength; it is a journey of release, renuncia- 
tion, and atonement, presided over and fostered 
by some spirit of compassion. This spirit is more 
often represented by a “mistress” rather than a 
“master” of initiation, a supreme feminine 
(i.e. anima) figure such as Kwan-Yin in Chin- 
ese Buddhism, Sophia in the Christian-Gnostic 
doctrine, or the ancient Greek goddess of 
wisdom Pallas Athena. 

Not only the flight of birds or the journey 
into the wilderness represents this symbolism, 
but any strong movement exemplifying release. 
In the first part of life, when one is still attached 
to the original family and social group, this 
may be experienced as that moment of initia- 
tion at which one must learn to take the decisive 
steps into life alone. It is the moment that 
T. S. Eliot describes in “The Waste Land,” 
when one faces 

The awful daring of a moment’s surrender , 

which an age of prudence can never retract . 

At a later period of life one may not need to 
break all ties with the symbols of meaningful 
containment. But nonetheless one can be filled 
with that spirit ofdivine discontent which forces 

all free men to face some new discovery or to 
live their lives in a new way. This change may 
become especially important in the period be- 
tween middle age and old age, which is the 
time in life when so many people are consider- 
ing what to do in their retirement — whether to 
work or to play, whether to stay at home or to 

If their lives have been adventurous, insecure, 
or full of change, they may long for a settled 
life and the consolations of religious certainty. 
But if they have lived chiefly within the social 
pattern in which they were born, they may 
desperately need a liberating change. This need 
may be filled, temporarily, by a trip around the 
world, or by nothing more than a move to a 
smaller house. But none of these external 
changes will serve unless there has been some 
inner transcendence of old values in creating, 
not just inventing, a new pattern of life. 

A case of this latter sort is a woman who 
had lived in a style of life that she, her family, 
and friends had long enjoyed because it was so 
well rooted, culturally nourishing, and secure 
from transitory fashions. She had this dream: 

I found some strange pieces of wood, not 
carved but with natural beautiful shapes. Some- 

Left, the British explorer R F Scott 
and his companions, photographed in 
the Antarctic in 1 91 1 . Explorers, 
venturing into the unknown, provide 
an apt image of the liberation, the 
breaking out of containment, that 
characterizes transcendence. 

The symbol of the snake is commonly 
linked with transcendence, because 
it was traditionally a creature of 
the underworld — and thus was a 
"mediator" between one way of life 
and another. Right, the snake and 
staff symbol of the Greco- Roman 
god of medicine Asklepios on a card 
used to identify a doctor’s car in 
modern France. 

* 5 2 

one said: '‘Neanderthal man brought them." 
Then I saw at a distance these Neanderthal men 
looking like a dark mass, but I could not see one 
of them distinctly. I thought I would take back 
from this place a piece of their wood. 

Then I went on, as if on a journey by myself, 
and I looked down into an enormous abyss like 
an extinct volcano. There was water in part of it 
and there I expected to see more Neanderthal 
men. But instead I saw black water pigs that had 
come out of the water and were running in and 
out of the black volcanic rocks. 

In contrast to this woman’s family attach- 
ments and her highly cultivated style of life, 
the dream takes her to a prehistoric period 
more primitive than anything we can visualize. 
She can find no social group among these 
ancient men : She sees them as an embodiment 
of a truly unconscious, collective “dark mass'’ 
in the distance. Yet they are alive, and she may 
carry away a piece of their wood. The dream 
emphasizes that the wood is natural, not carved ; 
therefore it comes from a primordial, not a cul- 
turally conditioned, level of the unconscious. 
The piece of wood, remarkable for its great age, 
links this woman’s contemporary experience to 
the distant origins of human life. 

We know from many examples that an 
ancient tree or plant represents symbolically the 

growth and development of psychic life (as 
distinct from instinctual life, commonly symbo- 
lized by animals). Hence, in this piece of wood, 
this woman acquired a symbol of her link with 
the deepest layers of the collective unconscious. 

Next she speaks of continuing her journey 
alone. This theme, as I have already pointed 
out, symbolizes the need for release as an initia- 
tory experience. So here we have another sym- 
bol of transcendence. 

Then, in the dream, she sees a huge crater of 
an extinct volcano, which has been the channel 
for a violent eruption of fire from the deepest 
layers of the earth. We can surmise that this 
refers to a significant memory trace, which leads 
back to a traumatic experience. This she asso- 
ciated to a personal experience early in her life 
when she had felt the destructive, yet creative, 
force of her passions to such an extent that she 
feared she would go out of her mind. She had 
found, in late adolescence, a quite unexpected 
need to break away from her family’s exces- 
sively conventional social pattern. She had 
achieved this break without serious distress, and 
had been able to return eventually to make her 
peace with the family. But there lingered a 
profound wish to make a still greater differen- 
tiation from her family background and to find 
freedom from her own pattern of existence. 

This dream recalls another. It came from a 
young man who had a totally different problem 
but who seemed to need a similar type of in- 
sight. He too had the urge to achieve differen- 
tiation. He dreamed of a volcano, and from its 
crater he saw two birds taking flight as if in 
fear that the volcano was about to erupt. This 
was in a strange, lonely place with a body of 
water between him and the volcano. In this 
case, the dream represented an individual 
initiation journey. , 

It is similar to cases reported among the 
simple food-gathering tribes, which are the least 
family-conscious groups we know. In these 
societies the young initiate must take a lonely 
journey to a sacred place (in Indian cultures of 
the North Pacific coast, it may actually be a 
crater lake) where, in a visionary or trancelike 
state, he encounters his “guardian spirit’’ in the 

1 53 

form of an animal, a bird, or natural object. 
He closely identifies himself with this “bush 
soul” and thereby becomes a man. Without such 
an experience he is regarded, as an Achumaui 
medicine man put it, as “an ordinary Indian, 

The young man’s dream came at the begin- 
ning of his life, and it pointed to his future 
independence and identity as a man. The 
woman I have described was approaching the 
end of her life, and she experienced a similar 
journey and seemed to need to acquire a simi- 
lar independence. She could live out the re- 
mainder of her days in harmony with an eternal 
human law that, by its antiquity, transcended 
the known symbols of culture. 

But such independence does not end in a 
state of yogi-like detachment that would mean 
a renunciation of the world with all its impuri- 
ties. In the otherwise dead and blasted land- 
scape of her dream the woman saw signs of 
animal life. These are “water pigs,” unknown 
to her as a species. They therefore would carry 
the meaning of a special type of animal, one 
that can live in two environments, in water or 
on the earth. 

This is the universal quality of the animal as 
a symbol of transcendence. These creatures, 
figuratively coming from the depths of the 
ancient Earth Mother, are symbolic denizens of 

the collective unconscious. They bring into the 
field of consciousness a special chthonic (under- 
world) message that is somewhat different from 
the spiritual aspirations symbolized by the birds 
in the young man's dream. 

Other transcendent symbols of the depths are 
rodents, lizards, snakes, and sometimes fish. 
These are intermediate creatures that combine 
underwater activity and the bird-flight with an 
intermediate terrestrial life. The wild duck or 
the swan are cases in point. Perhaps the com- 
monest dream symbol of transcendence is the 
snake, as represented by the therapeutic symbol 
of the Roman god of medicine Aesculapius, 
which has survived to modern times as a sign 
of the medical profession. This was originally 
a nonpoisonous tree snake; as we see it, coiled 
around the staff of the healing god, it seems to 
embody a kind of mediation between earth and 

A still more important and widespread sym- 
bol of chthonic transcendence is the motif of 
the two entwined serpents. These are the famous 
Naga serpents of ancient India; and we also 
find them in Greece as the entwined serpents 
on the end of the staff belonging to the god 
Hermes. An early Grecian herm is a stone 
pillar with a bust of the god above. On one side 
are the entwined serpents and on the other an 
erect phallus. As the serpents are represented 

Left a 1 7th-century French painting 
reveals the snake's role as mediator 
between this world and the next. 
Orpheus is playing his lyre; he 
and his audience fail to notice 
that Eurydice (center of picture) 
has been bitten by a snake— a fatal 
wound that symbolizes her descent 
into the underworld. 

Above, the Egyptian god Thoth with 
the head of a bird (an ibis), in a 
relief from c. 350 b.c. Thoth is 
an "underworld'' figure associated 
with transcendence; it was he who 
judged the souls of the dead. The 
Greek god Hermes, who was called 
"psycho-pomp" (soul-guide), had 
the function of guiding the dead 
to the underworld. Left, a stone 
herm, which was placed at cross- 
roads (symbolizing the god's role 
as a mediator between two worlds). 
On the side of the herm is a 
snake twined around a staff; this 
symbol (the caduceus) was carried 
over to the Roman god Mercury 
(right, a 1 6th-century Italian 
bronze), who also acquired wings, 
recalling the bird as a symbol of 
spiritual transcendence. 


in the act of sexual union and the erect phallus 
is unequivocally sexual, we can draw certain 
conclusions about the function of the herm as a 
symbol of fertility. 

But we are mistaken if we think this only 
refers to biological fertility. Hermes is Trickster 
in a different role as a messenger, a god of the 
cross-roads, and finally the leader of souls to 
and from the underworld. His phallus therefore 
penetrates from the known into the unknown 
world, seeking a spiritual message ofdeliverance 
and healing. 

Originally in Egypt Hermes was known as 
the ibis-headed god Thoth, and therefore was 
conceived as the bird form of the transcendent 
principle. Again, in the Olympian period of 
Greek mythology, Hermes recovered attributes 
of the bird life to add to his chthonic nature as 
serpent. His staff acquired wings above the ser- 
pents, becoming the caduceus or winged staff 
of Mercury, and the god himself became the 
“flying man” with his winged hat and sandals. 

Here we see his full power of transcendence, 
whereby the lower transcendence from under- 
world snake-consciousness, passing through the 
medium of earthly reality, finally attains trans- 
cendence to superhuman or transpersonal 
reality in its winged flight. 

Such a composite symbol is found in other 
representations as the winged horse or winged 
dragon or other creatures that abound in the 
artistic expressions of alchemy, so fully illus- 
trated in Dr. Jung’s classic work on this subject. 
We follow the innumerable vicissitudes of these 
symbols in our work with patients. They show 
what our therapy can expect to achieve when 
it liberates the deeper psychic contents so that 
they can beqome part of our conscious equip- 
ment for understanding life more effectively. 

It is not easy for modern man to grasp the 
significance of the symbols that come down to 
us from the past or that appear in our dreams. 
Nor is it easy to see how the ancient conflict 
between symbols of containment and liberation 

(Oivar fix 
Mf cW 


t him coin (ffctntnx 

vctvniv o' 
ttw.linfmrpwt’ crinciNu* 

Winged dragons (above, from a 1 5th- 
century manuscript) combine the 
transcendent symbolism of the snake 
and the bird Right, an image of 
spiritual transcendence: Mohammed 
on the winged mare Buraq flies 
through the celestial spheres. 



relates to our own predicament. Yet it becomes 
easier when we realize it is only the specific 
forms of these archaic patterns that change, 
not their psychic meaning. 

We have been talking of wild birds as sym- 
bols of release or liberation. But today we could 
as well speak of jet planes and space rockets, 
for they are the physical embodiment of the 
same transcendent principle, freeing us at least 
temporarily from gravity. In the same way the 
ancient symbols of containment, which once 
gave stability and protection, now appear in 
modern man’s search for economic security 
and social welfare. 

Any of us can see, of course, that there is a 
conflict in our lives between adventure and dis- 
cipline, or evil and virtue, or freedom and 
security. But these are only phrases we use to 
describe an ambivalence that troubles us, and 
to which we never seem able to find an answer. 

There is an answer. There is a meeting point 
between containment and liberation, and we 
can find it in the rites of initiation that I have 
been discussing. They can make it possible for 
individuals, or whole groups of people, to unite 
the opposing forces within themselves and 
achieve an equilibrium in their lives. 

But the rites do not offer this opportunity 
invariably, or automatically. They relate to 
particular phases in the life of an individual, or 
of a group, and unless they are properly under- 
stood and translated into a new way of life, the 
moment can pass. Initiation is, essentially, a 
process that begins with a rite of submission, 
followed by a period of containment, and then 
by a further rite of liberation. In this way every 
individual can reconcile theconfiictingelements 
of his personality: He can strike a balance that 
makes him truly human, and truly the master 
of himself. 

In the dreams and fantasies of many 
modern people, the flights of the 
great rockets of space research 
have often appeared as symbolic 
20th-century embodiments of the 
urge toward liberation and release 
that is called transcendence. 


3 The process of individuation 

M.-L. von Franz 

The rose window of the cathedral of Notre Dame, Paris 

The process of individuation 

The pattern of psychic growth 

At the beginning of this book Dr. C. G. Jung 
introduced the reader to the concept of the un- 
conscious, its personal and collective structures, 
and its symbolic mode of expression. Once one 
has seen the vital importance (that is, the heal- 
ing or destructive impact) of the symbols pro- 
duced by the unconscious, there remains the 
difficult problem ofinterpretation. Dr. Jung has 
shown that everything depends on whether any 
particular interpretation “clicks” and is mean- 
ingful to the individual concerned. In this way 
he has indicated the possible meaning and func- 
tion of dream symbolism. 

But, in the development of Jung's theory, 
this possibility raised another question: What 
is the purpose of the total dream life of the in- 
dividual? What role do dreams play, not only 
in the immediate psychic economy of the hu- 
man being, but in his life as a whole? 

By observing a great many people and study- 
ing their dreams (he estimated that he inter- 
preted at least 80,000 dreams), Jung discovered 
not only that all dreams are relevant in varying 
degrees to the life of the dreamer, but that they 
are all parts of one great web of psychological 
factors. He also found that, on the whole, they 
seem to follow an arrangement or pattern. This 
pattern Jung called "the process of individua- 
tion.” Since dreams produce different scenes 
and images every night, people who are not 
careful observers will probably be unaware of 
any pattern. But if one watches one’s own 
dreams over a period of years and studies the 
entire sequence, one will see that certain con- 
tents emerge, disappear, and then turn up 
again. Many people even dream repeatedly of 
the same figures, landscapes, or situations; and 
if one follows these through a whole series, one 
will see that they change slowly but perceptibly. 
These changes can be accelerated if the dream- 
er's conscious attitude is influenced by appro- 
priate interpretation of the dreams and their 
symbolic contents. 


Below, a "meander'* (a decoration 
in a seventh-century manuscript) 
Individual dreams seem as strange 
and fragmented as the detail, above 
from the decoration; but over a 
lifetime s dreaming, a meandering 
pattern appears --revealing the 
process of psychic growth 



Thus our dream life creates a meandering 
pattern in which individual strands or tenden- 
cies become visible, then vanish, then return 
again. If one watches this meandering design 
over a long period of time, one can observe a 
sort of hidden regulating or directing tendency 
at work, creating a slow, imperceptible process 
of psychic growth the process ofindividuation. 

Gradually a wider and more mature person- 
ality emerges, and by degrees becomes effective 
and even visible to others. The fact that we 
often speak of "‘arrested development" shows 
that we assume that such a process of growth 
and maturation is possible with every indivi- 
dual. Since this psychic growth cannot be 
brought about by a conscious effort of will 
power, but happens involuntarily and natur- 
ally, it is in dreams frequently symbolized by 
the tree, whose slow, powerful, involuntary 
growth fulfills a definite pattern. 

The organizing center from which the regu- 
latory effect stems seems to be a sort of "nu- 
clear atom" in our psychic system. One could 
also call it the inventor, organizer, and source 
of dream images. Jung called this center the 
"Self" and described it as the totality of the 
whole psyche, in order to distinguish it from 
the "ego," which constitutes only a small part of 
the total psyche. 

Throughout the ages men have been intui- 
tively aware of the existence of such an inner 
center. The Greeks called it man's inner dai- 
mon; in Egypt it was expressed by the concept 
of the Ba-soul\ and the Romans worshiped it 
as the "genius" native to each individual. In 
more primitive societies it was often thought of 
as a protective spirit embodied within an 
animal or a fetish. 

T his inner center is realized in exceptionally 
pure, unspoiled form by the Naskapi Indians, 
who still exist in the forests of the Labrador 
peninsula. These simple people are hunters who 
live in isolated family groups, so far from one 

The psyche can be compared to a 
sphere with a bright field (A) on its 
surface, representing consciousness. 

The ego is the field's center (only if 
"I" know a thing is it conscious) 

The Self is at once the nucleus 
and the whole sphere (B), its internal 
regulating processes produce dreams. 

another that they have not been able to evolve 
tribal customs or collective religious beliefs and 
ceremonies. In his lifelong solitude the Naskapi 
hunter has to rely on his own inner voices and 
unconscious revelations; he has no religious 
teachers who tell him what he should believe, 
no rituals, festivals, or customs to help him 
along. In his basic view of life, the soul of man 
is simply an "inner companion," whom he calls 
"my friend" or Mista'peo , meaning "Great 
Man." Mista’peo dwells in the heart and is im- 
mortal; in the moment of death, or shortly 
before, he leaves the individual, and later re- 
incarnates himself in another being. 

Those Naskapi who pay attention to their 
dreams and who try to find their meaning and 
test their truth can enter into a deeper connec- 
tion with the Great Man. He favors such 
people and sends them more and better dreams. 
Thus the major obligation of an individual 
Naskapi is to follow the instructions given by 
his dreams, and then to give permanent form 
to their contents in art. Lies and dishonesty 
drive the Great Man away from one's inner 
realm, whereas generosity and love of one's 
neighbors and of animals attract him and give 

i b i 

him life. Dreams give the Naskapi complete 
ability to find his way in life, not only in the 
inner world but also in the outer world of na- 
ture. They help him to foretell the weather and 
give him invaluable guidance in his hunting, 
upon which his life depends. I mention these 
very primitive people because they are uncon- 
taminated by our civilized ideas and still have 
natural insight into the essence of what Jung 
calls the Self. 

The Self can be defined as an inner guiding 
factor that is different from the conscious per- 
sonality and that can be grasped only through 
the investigation of one’s own dreams. These 
show it to be the regulating center that brings 
about a constant extension and maturing of the 
personality. But this larger, more nearly total 
aspect of the psyche appears first as merely an 
inborn possibility. It may emerge very slightly, 
or it may develop relatively completely during 
one’s lifetime. How far it develops depends on 
whether or not the ego is willing to listen to 
the messages of the Self. Just as the Naskapi 
have noticed that a person who is receptive to 
the hints of the Great Man gets better and more 
helpful dreams, we could add that the inborn 
Great Man becomes more real within the 
receptive person than in those who neglect him. 
Such a person also becomes a more complete 
human being. 

It even seems as if the ego has not been pro- 
duced by nature to follow its own arbitrary 
impulses to an unlimited extent, but to help to 
make real the totality — the whole psyche. It is 
the ego that serves to light up the entire system, 
allowing it to become conscious and thus to be 
realized. If, for example, I have an artistic 
talent of which my ego is not conscious, nothing 
will happen to it. The gift may as well be non- 
existent. Only if my ego notices it can I bring 
it into reality. The inborn but hidden totality 
of the psyche is not the same thing as a whole- 
ness that is fully realized and lived. 

One could picture this in the following way: 
The seed of a mountain pine contains the 
whole future tree in a latent form ; but each 
seed falls at a certain time onto a particular 
place, in which there are a number of special 

factors, such as the quality of the soil and the 
stones, the slope of the land, and its exposure 
to sun and wind. The latent totality of the pine 
in the seed reacts to these circumstances by 
avoiding the stones and inclining toward the 
sun, with the result that the tree’s growth is 
shaped. Thus an individual pine slowly comes 
into existence, constituting the fulfillment of its 
totality, its emergence into the realm of reality. 
Without the living tree, the image of the pine is 
only a possibility or an abstract idea. Again, the 
realization of this uniqueness in the individual 
man is the goal of the process of individuation. 

From one point of view this process takes 
place in man (as well as in every other living 
being) by itself and in the unconscious; it is a 
process by which man lives out his innate hu- 
man nature. Strictly speaking, however, the 
process of individuation is real only if the indi- 
vidual is aware of it and consequently makes a 
living connection with it. We do not know 
whether the pine tree is aware of its own 
growth, whether it enjoys and suffers the dif- 
ferent vicissitudes that shape it. But man cer- 
tainly is able to participate consciously in his 
development. He even feels that from time to 
time, by making free decisions, he can co- 
operate actively with it. This co-operation 
belongs to the process of individuation in the 
narrower sense of the word. 

Man, however, experiences something that 
is not contained in our metaphor of the pine 
tree. The individuation process is more than a 
coming to terms between the inborn germ of 
wholeness and the outer acts of fate. Its subjec- 
tive experience conveys the feeling that some 
supra-personal force is actively interfering in a 
creative way. One sometimes feels that the un- 
conscious is leading the way in accordance with 
a secret design. It is as if something is looking 
at me, something that I do not see but that sees 
me — perhaps that Great Man in the heart, who 
tells me his opinions about me by means of 

But this creatively active aspect of the psy- 
chic nucleus can come into play only when the 
ego gets rid of all purposive and wishful aims 
and tries to get to a deeper, more basic form 


of existence. The ego must be able to listen 
attentively and to give itself, without any fur- 
ther design or purpose, to that inner urge to- 
ward growth. Many existentialist philosophers 
try to describe this state, but they go only as 
far as stripping off the illusions of conscious- 
ness: They go right up to the door of the un- 
conscious and then fail to open it. 

People living in cultures more securely rooted 
than our own have less trouble in understand- 
ing that it is necessary to give up the utilitarian 
attitude of conscious planning in order to make 
way for the inner growth of the personality. I 
once met an elderly lady who had not achieved 
much in her life, in terms of outward achieve- 
ment. But she had in fact made a good mar- 
riage with a difficult husband, and had some- 
how developed into a mature personality. When 
she complained to me that she had not “done" 
anything in her life, I told her a story related 
by a Chinese sage, Chuang-Tzu. She under- 
stood immediately and felt great relief. This is 
the story : 

A wandering carpenter, called Stone, saw on his 
travels a gigantic old oak tree standing in a field 
near an earth-altar. The carpenter said to his 
apprentice, who was admiring the oak: “This is 

An earth altar beneath a tree (in 
a 19th-century Chinese painting). 

Such round or square structures 
usually symbolize the Self, to which 
the ego must submit to fulfill the 
process of individuation 

a useless tree. If you wanted to make a ship, it 
would soon rot; if you wanted to make tools, they 
would break. You can't do anything useful with 
this tree, and that's why it has become so old.'' 

But in an inn, that same evening, when the car- 
penter went to sleep, the old oak tree appeared 
to him in his dream and said: “Why do you com- 
pare me to your cultivated trees such as white- 
thorn, pear, orange, and apple trees, and all the 
others that hear fruit? Even before they can ripen 
their fruit, people attack and violate them. Their 
branches are broken, their twigs are torn. Their 
own gifts bring harm to them, and they cannot 
live out their natural span. That is what happens 
everywhere, and that is why I have long since 
tried to become completely useless. You poor mor- 
tal! Imagine if I had been useful in any way, 
would I have reached this size? Furthermore, 
you and I are both creatures, and how can one 
creature set himself so high as to judge another 
creature? You useless mortal man, what do you 
know r about useless trees?" 

The carpenter woke up and meditated upon his 
dream, and later, when his apprentice asked him 
why just this one tree served to protect the earth- 
altar, he answered, “Keep your mouth shut! Let's 
hear no more about it! The tree grew here on 
purpose because anywhere else people would have 
ill-treated it. If it were not the tree of the earth- 
altar. it might have been chopped down." 

The carpenter obviously understood his 
dream. He saw that simply to fulfill one’s des- 
tiny is the greatest human achievement, and 
that our utilitarian notions have to give way in 
the face of the demands of our unconscious 


psyche: If we translate this metaphor into psy- 
chological language, the tree symbolizes the 
process of individuation, giving a lesson to our 
shortsighted ego. 

Under the tree that fulfilled its destiny, there 
was — in Chuang-Tzu’s story--an earth-altar. 
This was a crude, unwrought stone upon which 
people made sacrifices to the local god who 
“owned" this piece ofland. The symbol of the 
earth-altar points to the fact that in order to 
bring the individuation process into reality, one 
must surrender consciously to the power of the 
unconscious, instead of thinking in terms of 
what one should do, or of what is generally 
thought right, or of what usually happens. One 
must simply listen, in order to learn what the 


inner totality the Self wants one to do here 
and now in a particular situation. 

Our attitude must be like that ol the moun- 
tain pine mentioned above: It does not get 
annoyed when its growth is obstructed by a 
stone, nor does it make plans about how to 
overcome the obstacles. It merely tries to feel 
whether it should grow more toward the left or 
the right, toward the slope or away from it. 
Like the tree, we should give in to this almost 
imperceptible, yet powerfully dominating, im- 
pulse an impulse that comes from the urge to- 
ward unique, creative self-realization. And this 
is a process in which one must repeatedly seek 
out and find something that is not yet known 
to anyone. The guiding hints or impulses come, 
not from the ego, but from the totality of the 
psyche: the Self. 

It is, moreover, useless to east furtive glances 
at the way someone else is developing, because 
each of us has a unique task of self-realization. 
Although many human problems are similar, 
they are never identical. All pine trees are very 
much alike (otherwise we should not recognize 
them as pines), yet none is exactly the same as 
another. Because of these factors of sameness 
and difference, it is difficult to summarize the 
infinite variations of the process of individua- 

tion. The fact is that each person has to do 
something different, something that is uniquely 
his own. 

Many people have criticized the Jungian 
approach for not presenting psychic material 
systematically. But these critics forget that the 
material itself is a living experience charged 
with emotion, by nature irrational and ever- 
changing, which does not lend itself to systema- 
tization except in the most superficial fashion. 
Modern depth psychology has here reached the 
same limits that confront microphysics. That is, 
when we are dealing with statistical averages, 
a rational and systematic description of the facts 
is possible. But when we are attempting to de- 
scribe a single psychic event, we can do no more 
than present an honest picture of it from as 
many angles as possible. I n the same way, scien- 
tists have to admit that they do not know what 
light is. T hey can say only that in certain ex- 
perimental conditions it seems to consist of par- 
ticles, while in other experimental conditions it 
seems to consist of waves. But what it is kt in 
itself '' is not known. The psychology of the un- 
conscious and any description of the process of 
individuation encounter comparable difficulties 
of definition. But 1 will try here to give a sketch 
of some of their most typical features. 

The first approach of the unconscious 

I or most people the years of youth are char- 
acterized by a state of gradual awakening in 
which the individual slowly becomes aware of 
the world and of himself Childhood is a period 
of great emotional intensity, and a child's 
earliest dreams often manifest in symbolic form 
the basic structure of the psyche, indicating how 
it will later shape the destiny of the individual 
concerned. For exam pie, Jung once told a group 
of students about a young woman who was so 
haunted by anxiety that she committed suicide 
at the age of 26. As a small child, she had 
(beamed that “Jack Frost'' had entered her 
room while she was lyirlg in bed and pinched 
her on the stomach. She woke and discovered 
that she had pinched herself with her own hand. 
The dream did not (lighten her; she merely re- 
membered that she had bad such a dream. But 
the fact that she did not react emotionally to 
her strange encounter with the demon of the 
cold of congealed life did not augur well for 
the future and was itself abnormal. It was with 
a cold, unfeeling hand that she later put an end 

to her life. From this single dream it is possible 
to deduce the tragic fate of the dreamer, which 
was anticipated by her psyche in childhood. 

Sometimes it is not a dream but some very 
impressive and unforgettable real event that, 
like a prophecy, anticipates the future in sym- 
bolic form. It is well known that children often 
forget events that seem impressive to adults but 
keep a vivid recollection of some incident or 
story that no one else has noticed. When we 
look into one of these childhood memories, we 
usually find that it depicts (if interpreted as if 
it were a symbol) a basic problem ol the child's 
psychic makeup. 

When a child reaches school age, the phase 
of building up the ego and of adapting to the 
outer world begins. This phase generally brings 
a number of painful shocks. At the same time, 
some children begin to feel very different from 
others, and this feeling of being unique brings 
a certain sadness that is part of the loneliness 
of many youngsters. T he imperfections of the 
world, and the evil within oneself as well as out- 

A child, adapting to the outside 
world, receives many psychological 
shocks: far left, the fearful first 
day at school; center, the surprise 
and pain resulting from an attack 
by another child; left, the grief 
and bewilderment of the first 
experience of death As in effect 
a protection from such shocks, the 
child may dream or draw a circular, 
quadrangular, nuclear motif (above) 
that symbolizes the all important 
center of the psyche. 

I( >f) 

side, become conscious problems; the child must 
try to cope with urgent (but not yet understood) 
inner impulses as well as the demands of the 
outer world. 

If the development of consciousness is dis- 
turbed in its normal unfolding, children fre- 
quently retire from outer or inner difficulties 
into an inner “fortress"; and when that hap- 
pens, their dreams and symbolic drawings of 
unconscious material often reveal to an unusual 
degree a type of circular, quadrangular, and 
“nuclear" motif (which I will explain later). 
This refers to the previously mentioned psychic 
nucleus, the vital center of the personality from 
which the whole structural development of con- 
sciousness stems. It is natural that the image of 
the center should appear in an especially strik- 
ing way when the psychic life of the individual 
is threatened. From this central nucleus (as far 
as we know today), the whole building up of ego 
consciousness is directed, the ego apparently be- 
ing a duplicate or structural counterpart of the 
original center. 

In this early phase there are many children 
who earnestly seek for some meaning in life that 
could help them to deal with the chaos both 
within and outside themselves. There are others, 
however, who are still unconsciouslv carried 

along by the dynamism of inherited and instinc- 
tive archetypal patterns. These young people are 
not concerned about the deeper meaning of life, 
because their experiences with love, nature, 
sport, and work contain an immediate and 
satisfying meaning for them. They are not neces- 
sarily more superficial; usually they are carried 
by the stream of life with less friction and dis- 
turbance than their more introspective fellows. 
If I travel in a car or train without looking out, 
it is only the stops, starts, and sudden turns that 
make me realise I am moving at all. 

The actual process ofindividuation— thecon- 
scious coming- to- terms with one's own inner 
center (psychic nucleus) or Sell — generally be- 
gins with a wounding of the personality and the 
suffering that accompanies it. This initial shock 
amounts to a sort of “call," although it is not 
often recognized as such. On the contrary, the 
ego feels hampered in its will or its desire and 
usually projects the obstruction onto something 
external. That is, the ego accuses God or the 
economic situation or the boss or the marriage 
partner of being responsible for whatever is 
obstructing it. 

Or perhaps everything seems outwardly all 
right, but beneath the surface a person is suffer- 
ing from a deadly boredom that makes everv- 


thing seem meaningless and empty. Many 
myths and fairy tales symbolically describe this 
initial stage in the process of individuation by 
telling of a king who has fallen ill or grown old. 
Other familiar story patterns are that a royal 
couple is barren ; or that a monster steals all the 
women, children, horses, and wealth of the king- 
dom; or that a demon keeps the king’s army 
or his ship from proceeding on its course; or 
that darkness hangs over the lands, wells dry 
up, and flood, drought, and frost afflict the 
country. Thus it seems as if the initial encounter 
with the Self casts a dark shadow ahead of 
time, or as if the “inner friend” comes at first 
like a trapper to catch the helplessly struggling 
ego in his snare. 

In myths one finds that the magic or talisman 
that can cure the misfortune of the king or his 
country always proves to be something very 
special. In one tale “a white blackbird'' or "a 
fish that carries a golden ring in its gills” is 
needed to restore the king’s health. In another, 
the king wants “the water of life" or “three 
golden hairs from the head of the devil" or “a 
woman's golden plait" (and afterward, natur- 
ally, the owner of the plait). Whatever it is, the 
thing that can drive away the evil is always 
unique and hard to find. 

It is exactly the same in the initial crisis in 
the life of an individual. One is seeking some- 
thing that is impossible to find or about which 
nothing is known. In such moments all well- 
meant, sensible advice is completely useless — 
advice that urges one to try to be responsible, 
to take a holiday, not to work so hard (or to 
work harder), to have more (or less) human con- 
tact, or to take up a hobby. None of that helps, 
or at best only rarely. There is only one thing 
that seems to work; and that is to turn directly 
toward the approaching darkness without pre- 
judice and totally naively, and to try to find 
out what its secret aim is and what it wants 
from you. 

The hidden purpose of the oncoming dark- 
ness is generally something so unusual, so unique 
and unexpected, that as a rule one can find out 
what it is only by means of dreams and fanta- 
sies welling up from the unconscious. If one 
focuses attention on the unconscious without 
rash assumptions or emotional rejection, it often 
breaks through in a flow of helpful symbolic 
images. But not always. Sometimes it first offers 
a series of painful realizations of what is wrong 
with oneselfand one’s conscious attitudes. Then 
one must begin the process by swallowing all 
sorts of bitter truths. 

Far left, a woodcut from a 1 7th- 
century alchemical manuscript 
depictsa king who has fallen ill — 
a common symbolic image of the 
emptiness and boredom { in the 
consciousness) that can mark the 
initial stage of the individuation 
process, Left, from the 1 960 Italian 
film La Dolce Vita, another image 
of this psychological state: Guests 
explore the run -down interior of 
a decayed aristocrat s castle 

Right, a painting by the modern 
Swiss artist Paul Klee entitled 
Fairy Tale. It illustrates a tale 
of a young man who sought and 
found the "bluebird of happiness." 
and so could marry a princess. 

In many fairy tales such a talisman 
is necessary to cure illness or 
misfortune, symbols of our 
feelings of emptiness and futility 


The realization of the shadow 

Whether tlu* unconscious conics up at first in 
a helpful or a negative form, after a time the 
need usually arises to readapt the conscious 
attitude in a better way to the unconscious fac- 
tors therefore to accept what seems to be 
“criticism" from the unconscious. Through 
dreams one becomes acquainted with aspects of 
one s own personality that for various reasons 
one has preferred not to look at too closely. 
This is what Jung called "the realization of the 
shadow." (He used the term “shadow” for this 
unconscious part of* the personality because it 
actually often appears in dreams in a personi- 
fied form.) 

The shadow is not the whole of the uncon- 
scious personality. It represents unknown or 
little-known attributes and qualities of the ego 

aspects that mostly belong to the personal 
sphere and that could just as well be conscious. 
In some aspects, the shadow can also consist of 
collective factors that stem from a source out- 
side the individual’s personal life. 

When an individual makes an attempt to see 
his shadow, he becomes aware of (and often 
ashamed of) those qualities and impulses he 
denies in himself but can plainly see in other 

people— such things as egotism, mental laziness, 
and sloppiness; unreal fantasies, schemes, and 
plots; carelessness and cowardice; inordinate 
love of money and possessions in short, all the 
little sins about which he might previously have 
told himself: “That doesn't matter; nobody 
will notice it, and in any case other people 
do it too." 

If you feel an overwhelming rage coming up 
in you when a friend reproaches you about a 
fault, you can be fairly sure that at this point 
you will find a part of your shadow, of which 
you are unconscious. It is, of course, natural to 
become annoyed when others who are "no bet- 
ter" criticize you because of shadow faults. But 
what can you say if your own dreams — an inner 
judge in your own being reproach you? T hat 
is the moment when the ego gets caught, and 
the result is usually embarrassed silence. After- 
ward the painf ul and lengthy work of self-edu- 
cation begins a work, we might say, that is 
the psychological equivalent of the labors of 
Hercules. I bis unfortunate hero's first task, you 
will remember, was to clean up in one day the 
Augean Stables, in which hundreds of cattle had 
dropped their dung for many decades — a task 

Three examples of a ‘collective 
infection" that can weld people 
mto an irrational mob and to 
which the shadow (the dark side of 
the ego-personality) is vulnerable 
Left, a scene from a 1 961 Polish 
film concerning 1 7th -century 
French nuns who were “possessed 
by the devil " Right a drawing 
by Brueghel depicts the affliction 
(largely psychosomatic) called "St 
Vitus’ Dance," which was widespread 
in the Middle Ages Far right, the 
fiery -cross emblem of the Ku Klux 
Klan. the white supremacy "secret 
society" of America’s South whose 
racial intolerance has often led 
to acts of mob violence 

so enormous that the ordinary mortal would be 
overcome by discouragement at the mere 
thought of it. 

The shadow does not consist only of omis- 
sions. It shows up just as often in an impulsive 
or inadvertent act. Before one has time to think, 

the dreamer. The following dream may serve 
as an example. The dreamer was a man of 48 
who tried to live very much for and by him- 
self, working hard and disciplining himself, re- 
pressing pleasure and spontaneity to a far 
greater extent than suited his real nature. 

the evil remark pops out, the plot is hatched, 
the wrong decision is made, and one is con- 
fronted with results that were never intended 
or consciously wanted. Furthermore, the sha- 
dow is exposed to collective infections to a much 
greater extent than is the conscious personality. 
When a man is alone, for instance, he feels rela- 
tively all right; but as soon as "the others" do 
dark, primitive things, he begins to fear that if 
he doesn't join in, he will be considered a fool. 
Thus he gives way to impulses that do not really 
belong to him at all. It is particularly in con- 
tacts with people of the same sex that one 
stumbles over both one's own shadow and those 
of other people. Although we do see the shadow 
in a person of the opposite sex, we are usually 
much less annoyed by it and can more easily 
pardon it. 

In dreams and myths, therefore, the shadow 
appears as a person of the same sex as that of 

I owned and inhabited a very big house in 
town, and I didn't yet know all its different parts. 
So I took a walk through it and discovered, 
mainly in the cellar, several rooms about which 
I knew nothing and even exits leading into other 
cellars or into subterranean streets. I felt uneasy 
when I found that several of these exits were not 
locked and some had no locks at all. Moreover, 
there were some laborers at work in the neighbor- 
hood who could have sneaked in. . . . 

When I came up again to the ground floor, I 
passed a hack yard where again I discovered dif- 
ferent exits into the street or into other houses. 
When I tried to investigate them more closely, a 
man came up to me laughing loudly and calling 
out that we were old pals from the elementary 
school. I remembered him too, and while he was 
telling me about his life, I walked along with him 
toward the exit and strolled with hiiii through the 

There was a strange chiaroscuro in the air as 
we walked through an enormous circular street 

Collection. The Museum of Modern Art. New York 

and arrived at a green lawn where three gallop- 
ing horses suddenly passed us. They were beauti- 
ful, strong animals, wild but well-groomed, and 
they had no rider with them. (Had they run away 
from military service?) 

The maze of strange passages, chambers, and 
unlocked exits in the cellar recalls the old 
Egyptian representation of the underworld, 
which is a well-known symbol of the uncon- 
scious wdth its unknown possibilities. It also 
shows how one is “open” to other influences in 
one's unconscious shadow side, and how un- 
canny and alien elements can break in. The 
cellar, one can say, is the basement of the 
dreamer's psyche. In the back yard of the 
strange building (which represents the still un- 
perceived psychic scope of the dreamer's person- 
ality) an old school friend suddenly turns up. 
This person obviously personifies another aspect 
of the dreamer himself— an aspect that had 
been part of his life as a child but that he had 
forgotten and lost. It often happens that a per- 
son's childhood qualities (for instance, gaiety, 
irascibility, or perhaps trustfulness) suddenly 

disappear, and one does not know wTere or how : 
they have gone. It is such a lost characteristic 
of the dreamer that now returns (from the back 
yard) and tries to make friends again. This 
figure probably stands for the dreamer’s 
neglected capacity for enjoying life and for his 
extraverted shadow side. 

But we soon learn why the dreamer feels ‘Tin- 
easy” just before meeting this seemingly harm- 
less old friend. When he strolls with him in the 
street, the horses break loose. The dreamer 
thinks they may have escaped from military 
service (that is to say, from the conscious disci- 
pline that has hitherto characterized his life). 
The fact that the horses have no rider shows 
that instinctive drives can get away from con- 
scious control. In this old friend, and in the 
horses, all the positive force reappears that was 
lacking before and that was badly needed by 
the dreamer. 

This is a problem that often comes up when 
one meets one’s “other side.” The shadow usu- 
ally contains values that are needed by consci- 
ousness, but that exist in a form that makes it 


Left, Anxious Journey by the modern 
Italian artist de Chirico The title 
and gloomy passages of the painting 
express the nature of the first 
contact with the unconscious when 
the individuation process begins. 

The unconscious is often symbolized 
by corridors, labyrinths, or mazes: 
Right, on a papyrus (c. 1400 b.c.), 
the seven doors of the Egyptian 
underworld, itself seen as a maze 
Below, drawings of three mazes: 
left to right, a Finnish stone maze 
(Bronze Age); a 1 9th-century British 
turf maze; and a maze (in tiles) on 
the floor of Chartres Cathedral 
(it could be walked as a symbolic 
pilgrimage to the Holy Land). 

difficult to integrate them into one's life. The 
passages and the large house in this dream also 
show that the dreamer does not yet know his 
own psychic dimensions and is not yet able to 
fill them out. 

The shadow in this dream is typical for an 
introvert (a man who tends to retire too much 
from outer life). In the case of an extravert, who 
is turned more toward outer objects and outer 
life, the shadow would look quite different. 

A young man who had a very lively tempera- 
ment embarked again and again on successful 
enterprises, while at the same time his dreams 
insisted that he should finish off a piece of pri- 
vate creative work he had begun. The follow- 
ing was one of those dreams : 

A man is lying on a couch and has pulled the 
cover over his face. He is a Frenchman, a des- 
perado who would take on any criminal job. An 
official is accompanying me downstairs, and I 
know that a plot has been made against me: 
namely, that the Frenchman should kill me as if 
by chance. (That is how it would look from the 
outside.) He actually sneaks up behind me when 

we approach the exit, but I am on my guard. A 
tall, portly man (rather rich and influential) sud- 
denly leans against the wall beside me, feeling ill. 
I quickly grab the opportunity to kill the official 
by stabbing his heart. “One only notices a bit of' 
moisture*' this is said like a comment. Now I 
am safe, for the Frenchman won't attack me since 
the man who gave him his orders is dead. (Prob- 
ably the official and the successful portly man 
are the same person, the latter somehow replacing 
the former.; 

The desperado represents the other side of 
the dreamer— his introversion — which has 
reached a completely destitute state. He lies on 
a couch (i.e. he is passive) and pulls the cover 
over his face because he wants to be left alone. 
The official, on the other hand, and the prosper- 
ous portly man (who are secretly the same per- 
son) personify the dreamer's successful outer re- 
sponsibilities and activities. The sudden illness 
of the portly man is connected with the fact that 
this dreamer had in fact become ill several times 
when he had allowed his dynamic energy to ex- 
plode too forcibly in his external life. But this 

i 7 1 

successful man has no blood in his veins only 
a sort of moisture which means that these ex- 
ternal ambitious activities of the dreamer con- 
tain no genuine life and no passion, but are 
bloodless mechanisms, t hus it would be no real 
loss if the portly man were killed. At the end of 
the dream, the Frenchman is satisfied ; he obvi- 
ously represents a positive shadow figure who 
had turned negative and dangerous only be- 
cause the conscious attitude of the dreamer did 
not agree with him. 

This dream shows us that the shadow can 
consist of many different elements for in- 
stance, of unconscious ambition (the successful 
portly man) and of introversion (the French- 
man). This particular dreamer's association to 
the French, moreover, was that they know how 
to handle love affairs very well. Therefore the 
two shadow figures also represent two well- 
known drives: power and sex. T he power drive 
appears momentarily in a double form, both as 
an official and as a successful man. The official, 
or civil servant, personifies collective adapta- 
tion, whereas the successful man denotes ambi- 
tion; but naturally both serve the power drive. 
When the dreamer succeeds in stopping this 
dangerous inner force, the Frenchman is sud- 
denly no longer hostile. In other words, the 
equally dangerous aspect of the sex drive has 
also surrendered. 

Obviously, the problem of the shadow plays 
a great role in all political conflicts. If the man 
who had this dream had not been sensible about 
his shadow problem, he could easily have iden- 
tified the desperate Frenchman with the “dan- 
gerous Communists" of outer life, or the official 
plus the prosperous man with the “grasping 
capitalists/' In this way he would have avoided 
seeing that he had within him such warring 
elements. If people observe their own uncon- 
scious tendencies in other people, this is called 
a “projection." Political agitation in all coun- 
tries is full of such projections, just as much as 
the back-yard gossip of little groups and indi- 
viduals. Projections of all kinds obscure our 
view of our fellow men, spoiling its objectivity, 
and thus spoiling all possibility of genuine 
human relationships. 


"For over five years this man 
has been chasing around Europe 
like a madman in search of 
something he could set on fire. 
Unfortunately he again and 
again finds hirelings who 
open the gates of their country 
to this international incendiary " 

1 7 2 

And there is an additional disadvantage in 
projecting our shadow. If we identify our own 
shadow with, say, the Communists or the capi- 
talists, a part of our own personality remains 
on the opposing side. The result is that we shall 
constantly (though involuntarily) do things be- 
hind our own backs that support this other side, 
and thus we shall unwittingly help our enemy. 
If, on the contrary, we realize the projection and 
can discuss matters without fear or hostility, 
dealing with the other person sensibly, then 
there is a chance of mutual understanding —or 
at least of a truce. 

Whether the shadow becomes our friend or 
enemy depends largely upon ourselves. As the 
dreams of the unexplored house and the French 
desperado both show, the shadow is not neces- 
sarily always an opponent. In fact, he is exactly 
like any human being with whom one has to get 
along, sometimes by giving in, sometimes by re- 
sisting, sometimes by giving love -whatever the 
situation requires. The shadow becomes hostile 
only when he is ignored or misunderstood. 

Sometimes, though not often, an individual 
feels impelled to live out the worse side of his 
nature and to repress his better side. In such 
cases the shadow appears as a positive figure in 
his dreams. But to a person who lives out his 
natural emotions and feelings, the shadow may 
appear as a cold and negative intellectual; it 
then personifies poisonousjudgments and nega- 
tive thoughts that have been held back. So, 
whatever form it takes, the function of the 
shadow is to represent the opposite side of the 
ego and to embody just those qualities that one 
dislikes most in other people. 

It would be relatively easy if one could inte- 
grate the shadow into the conscious personality 
just by attempting to be honest and to use one’s 
insight. But, unfortunately, such an attempt 
does not always work. There is such a passionate 
drive within the shadowy part of oneself that 
reason may not prevail against it. A bitter ex- 
perience coming from the outside may occa- 
sionally help; a brick, so to speak, has to drop 
on one’s head to put a stop to shadow drives 
and impulses. At times a heroic decision may 
serve to halt them, but such a superhuman 
effort is usually possible only if the Great Man 
within (the Self ) helps the individual to carry 
it through. 

The fact that the shadow contains the over- 
whelming power of irresistible impulse does not 
mean, however, that the drive should always be 
heroically repressed. Sometimes the shadow is 
powerful because the urge of the Self is point- 
ing in the same direction, and so one does not 
know whether it is the Self or the shadow that 
is behind the inner pressure. In the unconscious, 
one is unfortunately in the same situation as in 
a moonlit landscape: All the contents are 
blurred and merge into one another, and one 
never knows exactly what or where anything 
is, or where one thing begins and ends. (This is 
known as the “contamination” of unconscious 

When Jung called one aspect of the uncon- 
scious personality the shadow, he was referring 
to a relatively well-defined factor. But some- 
times everything that is unknown to the ego is 
mixed up with the shadow, including even the 
most valuable and highest forces. Who, for in- 

Rather than face our defects as 
revealed by the shadow, we project 
them on to others for instance, 
on to our political enemies Above 
left, a poster made for a parade 
in Communist China shows America 
as an evil serpent (bearing Nazi 
swastikas) killed by a Chinese hand 
Left, Hitler during a speech; the 
quotation is his description of 
Churchill Projections also flourish 
in malicious gossip (right, from 
the British television series 
Coronation Street) 

Above, the wild white stallion from 
the 1 953 French film Crin Blanc. 

Wild horses often symbolize the 
uncontrollable instinctive drives 
that can erupt from the unconscious 
and that many people try to repress. 
In the film, the horse and a boy 
form a strong attachment (though 
the horse still runs wild with his 
herd). But local horsemen set out 
to capture the wild horses. The 
stallion and his boy rider are 
pursued for miles; finally they 
are cornered on the seashore. 

Rather than submit to capture, the 
boy and the horse plunge into the 
sea to be swept away Symbolically, 
the story's end seems to represent 
an escape into the unconscious 
(the sea) as a way to avoid facing 
reality in the outside world. 

stance, could be quite sure whether the French 
desperado in the dream I quoted was a useless 
tramp or a most valuable introvert? And the 
bolting horses of the preceding dream — should 
they be allowed to run free or not? In a case 
when the dream itself does not make things 
clear, the conscious personality will have to 
make the decision. 

If the shadow figure contains valuable, vital 
forces, they ought to be assimilated into actual 
experience and not repressed. It is up to the ego 
to give up its pride and priggishness and to live 
out something that seems to be dark, but actu- 
ally may not be. This can require a sacrifice 
just as heroic as the conquest of passion, but 
in an opposite sense. 

The ethical difficulties that arise when one 
meets one’s shadow are well described in the 
18 th Book of the Koran. In this tale Moses 
meets Khidr (“the Green One” or “first angel 
of God”) in the desert. They wander along to- 
gether, and Khidr expresses his fear that Moses 
will not be able to witness his deeds without 
indignation. If Moses cannot bear with him and 
trust him, Khidr will have to leave. 

Presently Khidr scuttles the fishing boat of 
some poor villagers. Then, before Moses’s eyes, 
he kills a handsome young man, and finally he 
restores the fallen wall of a city of unbelievers. 
Moses cannot help expressing his indignation, 
and so Khidr has to leave him. Before his de- 
parture, however, he explains the reasons for 
his actions: By scuttling the boat he actu- 

ally saved it for its owners because pirates 
were on their way to steal it. As it is, the fisher- 
men can salvage it. The handsome young man 
was on his way to commit a crime, and by kill- 
ing him Khidr saved his pious parents from 
infamy. By restoring the wall, two pious young 
men were saved from ruin because their trea- 
sure was buried under it. Moses, who had been 
so morally indignant, saw now (too late) that 
his judgment had been too hasty. Khidr's doings 
had seemed to be totally evil, but in fact they 
were not. 

Looking at this story naively, one might 
assume that Khidr is the lawless, capricious, 
evil shadow of pious, law-abiding Moses. But 
this is not the case. Khidr is much more the per- 
sonification of some secret creative actions of 
the Godhead. (One can find a similar meaning 
in the famous Indian story of “The King and 
the Corpse” as interpreted by Henry Zimmer.) 
It is no accident that I have not quoted a dream 
to illustrate this subtle problem. I have chosen 
this well-known story from the Koran because 
it sums up the experience of a lifetime, which 
would very rarely be expressed with such clarity 
in an individual dream. 

When dark figures turn up in our dreams and 
seem to want something, we cannot be sure 
whether they personify merely a shadowy part of 
ourselves, or the Self, or both at the same time. 
Divining in advance whether our dark partner 
symbolizes a shortcoming that we should 
overcome or a meaningful bit of life that we 

The shadow can be said to have two 
aspects, one dangerous, the other 
valuable The painting of the Hindu 
god Vishnu, far left, images such 
a duality: Usually considered a 
benevolent god, Vishnu here appears 
in a demonic aspect, tearing a man 
apart. Left, from a Japanese 
temple (a.d. 759), a sculpture of 
Buddha also expresses duality: 

The god's many arms hold symbols 
of both good and evil. Right, the 
doubt-stricken Martin Luther 
(portrayed by Albert Finney in the 
1961 play Luther by Britain's John 
Osborne) : Luther was never sure 
whether his break from the Church 
was inspired by God or arose from 
his own pride and obstinacy (in 
symbolic terms, the "evil" side 
of his shadow). 

should accept this is one of the most difficult 
problems that we encounter on the way to indi- 
viduation. Moreover, the dream symbols are 
often so subtle and complicated that one can- 
not be sure of their interpretation. In such a 
situation all one can do is accept the discom- 
fort of ethical doubt making no final decisions 
or commitments and continuing to watch the 
dreams. This resembles the situation of Cinder- 
ella when her stepmother threw a heap of good 
and bad peas in front of her and asked her to 
sort them out. Although it seemed quite hope- 
less, Cinderella began patiently to sort the peas, 
and suddenly doves (or ants, in some versions) 
came to help her. These creatures symbolize 
helpful, deeply unconscious impulses that can 
only be felt in one’s body, as it were, and that 
point to a way out. 

Somewhere, right at the bottom of one's own 
being, one generally does know where one 
should go and what one should do. But there 
are times when the clown we call '‘I” behaves 
in such a distracting fashion that the inner voice 
cannot make its presence felt. 

Sometimes all attempts to understand the 
hints of the unconscious fail, and in such a 
difficulty one can only have the courage to do 
what seems to be right, while being ready to 
change course if the suggestions of the uncon- 
scious should suddenly point in another direc- 
tion. It may also happen (although this is 
unusual) that a person will find it better to 
resist the urge of the unconscious, even at the 
price of feeling warped by doing so, rather than 
depart too far from the state of being human. 
(This would be the situation of people who 
had to live out a criminal disposition in order 
to be completely themselves.) 

The strength and inner clarity needed by the 
ego in order to make such a decision stem 
secretly from the Great Man, who appar- 
ently does not want to reveal himself too clearly. 
It may be that the Self wants the ego to make 
a free choice, or it may be that the Self depends 
on human consciousness and its decisions to 
help him to become manifest. When it comes 
to such difficult ethical problems, no one can 
truly judge the deeds of others. Each man has 

to look to his own problem and try to determine 
what is right for himself. As an old Zen Budd- 
hist Master said, we must follow the example 
of the cowherd who watches his ox “with a 
stick so that it will not graze on other people’s 

These new discoveries of depth psychology 
are bound to make some change in our collective 
ethical views, for they will compel us to judge 
all human actions in a much more individual 
and subtle way. The discovery of the uncon- 
scious is one of the most far-reaching discov- 
eries of recent times. But the fact that 
recognition of its unconscious reality involves 
honest self-examination and reorganization ol 
one’s life causes many people to continue to 
behave as if nothing at all has happened. It 
takes a lot of courage to take the unconscious 
seriously and to tackle the problems it raises. 
Most people are too indolent to think deeply 
about even those moral aspects of their beha- 
vior of which they are conscious; they are cer- 
tainly too lazy to consider how the unconscious 
affects them. 


The anima: the woman within 

Difficult and subtle ethical problems are not in- 
variably brought up by the appearance of the 
shadow itself. Often another "inner figure” 
emerges. If the dreamer is a man, he will dis- 
cover a female personification of his uncon- 
scious; and it will be a male figure in the case 
of a woman. Often this second symbolic figure 
turns up behind the shadow, bringing up new 
and different problems. Jung called its male 
and female forms "animus” and "anima.” 

The anima is a personification of all feminine 
psychological tendencies in a man's psyche, such 
as vague feelings and moods, prophetic hunches, 
receptiveness to the irrational, capacity for per- 
sonal love, feeling for nature, and — last but not 
least — his relation to the unconscious. It is no 
mere chance that in olden times priestesses (like 
the Greek Sibyl) were used to fathom the divine 
will and to make connection with the gods. 

A particularly good example of how the 
anima is experienced as an inner figure in a 
man's psyche is found in the medicine men and 
prophets (shamans) among the Eskimo and 
other arctic tribes. Some of these even wear 
women's clothes, or have breasts depicted on 
their garments, in order to manifest their inner 
feminine side the side that enables them to 
connect with the “ghost land'' (i.e. what we 
call the unconscious). 

One reported case tells of a young man who 
was being initiated by an older shaman and 
who was buried by him in a snow hole. He fell 
into a state of dreaminess and exhaustion. In 
this coma he suddenly saw a woman who 
emitted light. She instructed him in all he 
needed to know and later, as his protective 
spirit, helped him to practice his difficult pro- 
fession by relating him to the powers of the be- 

The anima (the female element in 
a male psyche) is often personified 
as a witch or a priestess — women 
who have links with "forces of 
darkness" and "the spirit world" 

(i.e. the unconscious). Left, a 
sorceress with imps and demons 
(in a 1 7th-century engraving). 
Below, a shaman of a Siberian tribe, 
who is a man dressed as a woman — 
because women are thought to be 
more able to contact spirits. 

Above, a woman spiritualist or 
medium (from the 1 951 film The 
Medium , based on an opera by Gian 
Carlo Menotti). The majority of 
modern mediums are probably 
women; the belief is still widespread 
that women are more receptive than 
men to the irrational 


yond. Such an experience shows the anima as 
the personification of a man's unconscious. 

In its individual manifestation the character 
of a man's anima is as a rule shaped by his 
mother. If he feels that his mother had a nega- 
tive influence on him, his anima will often ex- 
press itself in irritable, depressed moods, 
uncertainty, insecurity, and touchiness, flf, 
however, he is able to overcome the negative 
assaults on himself, they can even serve to re- 
inforce his masculinity. ) Within the soul ofsuch 
a man the negative mother-anima figure will 
endlessly repeat this theme: “I am nothing. 
Nothing makes any sense. With others it's differ- 
ent, but for me ... I enjoy nothing." These 
“anima moods" cause a sort of dullness, a fear 
of disease, of impotence, or of accidents. The 
whole of life takes on a sad and oppressive 
aspect. Such dark moods can even lure a man 
to suicide, in which case the anima becomes a 
death demon. She appears in this role in 
Cocteau's film Orphee . 

The French call such an anima figure a 
femme fatale . (A milder version of this dark 

anima is personified by the Queen of the Night 
in Mozart's Magic Flute.) The Greek Sirens or 
the German Lorelei also personify this dan- 
gerous aspect of the anima, which in this form 
symbolizes destructive illusion. The following 
Siberian tale illustrates the behavior of such a 
destructive anima : 

One dav a lonely hunter secs a beautiful 
woman emerging from the deep forest on the 
other side of the river. She waves at him and 

Oh. come, lonely hunter in the stillness ol dusk. 

Come, come! I miss you, I miss you! 

Now I will embrace you, embrace you! 

Come, come! My nest is near, my nest is near. 

( lomc. come, lonely hunter, now in the stillness 

of dusk. 

He throws olf his clothes and swims across the 
river, but suddenly she flies away in the form of 
an owl, laughing mockingly at him. When he 
tries to swim back to find his clothes, he drowns 
in t he cold river. 

In this tale the anima symbolizes an unreal 
dream of love, happiness, and maternal warmth 
(her nest) — a dream that lures men away from 

The anima (like the shadow) has 
two aspects, benevolent and malefic 
(or negative). Left, a scene from 
Orphee (a film version by Cocteau 
of the Orpheus myth): The woman 
can be seen as a lethal anima, for 
she has led Orpheus (being carried 
by dark "underworld'' figures) to 
his doom. Also malevolent are the 
Lorelei of Teutonic myth (below, 
in a 1 9th-century drawing), water 
spirits whose singing lures men 
to their death Below right, a 
parallel from Slavonic myth: the 
Rusalka These beings were thought 
to be spirits of drowned girls who 
bewitch and drown passing men 


reality. The hunter is drowned because he ran 
after a wishful fantasy that could not be 

Another way in which the negative anima in 
a man s personality can be revealed is in 
waspish, poisonous, effeminate remarks by 
which he devalues everything. Remarks of this 
sort always contain a cheap twisting of the truth 
and are in a subtle way destructive. There are 
legends throughout the world in which “a 
poison damsel'’ (as they call her in the Orient) 
appears. She is a beautiful creature who has 
weapons hidden in her body or a secret poison 
with which she kills her lovers during their first 
night together. In this guise the anima is as 
cold and reckless as certain uncanny aspects of 
nature itself, and in Europe is often expressed 
to this day by the belief in witches. 

If, on the other hand, a man's experience of 
his mother has been positive, this can also affect 
his anima in typical but different ways, with 
the result that he either becomes effeminate or 
is preyed upon by women and thus is unable 

this sort can turn men into sentimentalists, or 
they may become as touchy as old maids or as 
sensitive as the fairy-tale princess who could 
feel a pea under 30 mattresses. A still more 
subtle manifestation of a negative anima 
appears in some fairy tales in the form of a 
princess who asks her suitors to answer a series 
of riddles or, perhaps, to hide themselves under 
her nose. If they cannot give the answers, or if 
she can find them, they must die — and she in- 
variably wins. The anima in this guise involves 
men in a destructive intellectual game. We can 
notice the effect of this anima trick in all those 
neurotic pseudo-intellectual dialogues that in- 
hibit a man from getting into direct touch with 
life and its real decisions. He reflects about life 
so much that he cannot live it and loses all his 
spontaneity and outgoing feeling. 

The most frequent manifestation of the 
anima takes the form of erotic fantasy. Men 
may be driven to nurse their fantasies by look- 
ing at films and strip-tease shows, or by day- 
dreaming over pornographic material. This is a 

to cope with the hardships of life. An anima of crude, primitive aspect of the anima, which 

Above, four scenes from the 1 930 
German film The Blue Angel, which 
concerns a strait-laced professor's 
infatuation with a cabaret singer, 
clearly a negative anima figure 
The girl uses her charm to degrade 
the professor, even making him 
a buffoon in her cabaret act. 

Right, a drawing of Salome with 
the head of John the Baptist, 
whom she had killed to prove her 
power over King Herod 

Above, a painting by the 1 5th-century 
Italian artist Stefano di Giovanni 
depicting St. Anthony confronted by 
an attractive young girl But her 
bat-like wings reveal that she is 
actually a demon, one of the many 
temptations offered to St Anthony 
—and another embodiment of the 
deadly amma figure. 

Above right, a British cinema poster 
advertising the French film Eve 
(1 962). The film is concerned with 
the exploits of a femme fatale 
(played by the French actress Jeanne 
Moreau) —a widely known term for 
the "dangerous'' women whose 
relationships with men clearly image 
the nature of the negative anima. 

The following is a description 
(taken from the poster above) of 
the central character of the film 
(a melodramatic description, but one 
that might fit many personifications 
of the negative anima): "Mysterious 
-tantalizing — alluring wanton - 
but deep within her burning the 
violent fires that destroy a man." 

becomes compulsive only when a man does not 
sufficiently cultivate his feeling relationships 
when his feeling attitude toward life has 
remained infantile. 

All these aspects of the anima have the same 
tendency that we have observed in the shadow : 
That is, they can be projected so that they 
appear to the man to be the qualities of some 
particular woman. It is the presence of the 
anima that causes a man to fall suddenly in 
love when he sees a woman for the first time 
and knows at once that this is “she.” In this 
situation, the man feels as if he has known this 
woman intimately for all time; he falls for her 
so helplessly that it looks to outsiders like com- 
plete madness. Women who are of “fairy-like" 
character especially attract such anima projec- 
tions, because men can attribute almost any- 
thing to a creature who is so fascinatingly 
vague, and can thus proceed to weave fanta- 
sies around her. 

The projection of the anima in such a sud- 
den and passionate form as a love affair can 
greatly disturb a man’s marriage and can lead 
to the so-called “human triangle," with its 

accompanying difficulties. A bearable solution 
to such a drama can be found only if the anima 
is recognized as an inner power. The secret aim 
of the unconscious in bringing about such an 
entanglement is to force a man to develop and 
to bring his own being to maturity by integrat- 
ing more of his unconscious personality and 
bringing it into his real life. 

But I have said enough about the negative 
side of the anima. There are just as many im- 
portant positive aspects. The anima is, for 
instance, responsible for the fact that a man is 
able to find the right marriage partner. Another 
function is at least equally important: When- 
ever a man’s logical mind is incapable of dis- 
cerning facts that are hidden in his unconscious, 
the anima helps him to dig them out. Even 
more vital is the role that the anima plays in 
putting a man’s mind in tune with the right 
inner values and thereby opening the way into 
more profound inner depths. It is as if an inner 
“radio" becomes tuned to a certain wavelength 
that excludes irrelevancies but allows the voice 
of the Great Man to be heard. In establishing 
this inner “radio" reception, the anima takes 


A man's stress on intellectualism 
can be due to a negative anima — 
often represented in legends and 
myths by the female figure who 
asks riddles that men must answer 
or die. Above, a 1 9th-century 
French painting depicts Oedipus 
answering the Sphinx's riddle 

Left, a traditional view of the 
demonic anima as an ugly witch — 
in a 1 6th -century German woodcut, 
"The Bewitched Groom." 

The anima appears in crude, childish 
form in men's erotic fantasies — 
which many men indulge through 
forms of pornography. Below, part 
of a show in a modern British 
strip-tease night club. 

In the 1 953 Japanese film Ugetsu 
Monogatari, a man comes under the 
spell of a ghost princess (center, 
above) an image of a projection 
of the anima on to a "fairy like'* 
woman, producing a destructive 
fantasy relationship. 

In Madame Bovary the 1 9th century 
French novelist Flaubert describes 
a "love madness" caused by an anima 
projection: "By her constantly 
changing moods, sometimes mystical, 
sometimes gay, now talkative, now 
silent, sometimes passionate, 
sometimes superior she knew how 
to evoke a thousand desires in him, 
a thousand instincts and memories. 
She was the beloved one of all 
novels, the heroine of all plays, 
the "she" of all poems he had ever 
read On her shoulders he found 
the 'amber glow' of the bathing 
Odalisque; she had the long waist 
of ladies in the chivalric age; 
she also looked like the pale lady 
of Barcelona'; but she was always 
an angel." Left, Emma Bovary (in 
the 1 949 film of the novel) with 
her husband (left) and lover. 


on the role of guide, or mediator, to the world 
within and to the Self. That is how she appears 
in the example of the initiations of shamans 
that 1 described earlier; this is the role of Bea- 
trice in Dante’s Paradiso , and also of the god- 
dess Isis when she appeared in a dream to 
Apuleius, the famous author of The Golden 
Ass , in order to initiate him into a higher, more 
spiritual form of life. 

The dream of a 45-year-old psychotherapist 
may help to make clear how the anima can be 
an inner guide. As he was going to bed on the 
evening before he had this dream, he thought 
to himself that it was hard to stand alone in 
life, lacking the support of a church. He found 
himself envying people who are protected by 
the maternal embrace of an organization. (He 
had been born a Protestant but no longer had 
any religious affiliation.) 'Phis was his dream: 

I am in the aisle of an old church filled with 
people. Together with my mother and my wife, 
I sit at the end of' the aisle in what seem to be 
extra seats. 

I am to celebrate the Mass as a priest, and I 
have a big Mass book in my hands, or, rather, a 
prayer book or an anthology of poems. This book 
is not familiar to me, and I cannot find the right 
text. I am very excited because I have to begin 
soon, and, to add to my troubles, my mother and 
wife disturb me by chattering about unimportant 
trifles. Now the organ stops, and everybody is 
waiting for me, so I get up in a determined way 
and ask one of the nuns who is kneeling behind 
me to hand me her Mass book and point out the 
right place which she does in an obliging man- 
ner. Now, like a sort of sexton, this same nun pre- 
cedes me to the altar, which is somewhere behind 
me and to the left, as if we are approaching it 
from a side aisle. The Mass book is like a sheet of' 
pictures, a sort of board, three feet long and a 
foot wide, and on it is the text with ancient pic- 
tures in columns, one beside the other. 

First the nun has to read a part of tin* liturgy 
before I begin, and I have still not found the right 
place in the text. She has told me that it is Num- 
ber 15, but the numbers are not clear, and I can- 
not find it. With determination, however, I turn 
toward the congregation, and now I have found 
Number 15 (the next to the last on the board), 
although I do not yet know' if' I shall be able to 
decipher it. I want to try all the same. I wake up. 

Men project the anima on to things 
as well as women. For instance, 
ships are always known as "she” 
above, the female figurehead on 
the old British clipper ship 
Cutty Sark. The captain of a ship 
is symbolically "her" husband, 
which may be why he must 
(according to tradition) go down 
with the ship if "she" sinks. 

A car is another kind of possession 
that is usually feminized — i.e that 
can become the focus of many men’s 
anima projections. Like ships, cars 
are called "she." and their owners 
caress and pamper them (below) 
like favorite mistresses. 

This dream expressed in a symbolic way an 
answer from the unconscious to the thoughts 
that the dreamer had had the evening before. 
It said to him. in effect: “You yourself must 
become a priest in your own inner church in 
the church of your soul.” Thus the dream 
shows that the dreamer does have the helpful 
support of an organization; he. is contained in 
a church not an external church but one that 
exists inside his own soul. 

The people (all his own psychic qualities) 
want him to function as the priest and celebrate 
the Mass himself. Now the dream cannot mean 
the actual Mass, for its Mass book is very dif- 
ferent from the real one. It seems that the idea 
of the M ass is used as a symbol, and therefore 
it means a sacrificial act in which the Divinity 
is present so that man can communicate with 
it. This symbolic solution is, of course, not gen- 
erally valid but relates to this particular 
dreamer. It is a typical solution for a Protes- 
tant. because a man who through real faith is 

Two stages in the development of 
the anima: First, primitive woman 
(above, from a painting by Gauguin); 
second, romanticized beauty —as in 
the idealized portrait, left, of a 
Renaissance Italian girl who is 
depicted as Cleopatra. The second 
stage was classically embodied in 
Helen of Troy {below, with Paris) 



still contained in the Catholic Church usually 
experiences his aninia in the image of the 
Church herself, and her sacred images are lor 
him the symbols of the unconscious. 

Our dreamer did not have this ecclesiastical 
experience, and this is why lu* had to follow an 
inner way. Furthermore, the dream told him 
what he should do. It said: "Your mother- 
boundness and your extraversion (represented 
by the wife who is an extravert) distract you 
and make you feel insecure, and by meaning- 
less talk keep you from celebrating the inner 
M ass. But if you follow the nun (the introverted 
anima j, she will lead you as both a servant and 
a priest. She owns a strange Mass book which 
is composed of 16 (four times four) ancient pic- 
tures. Your Mass consists of your contemplation 
of these psychic images that vour religious 
anima reveals to you. " In other words, if the 
dreamer overcomes his inner uncertainty, 
caused by his mother complex, he will find that 
his life task has the nature and quality of a 
religious service and that if he meditates about 
the symbolic meaning of the images in his soul, 
they will lead him to this realization. 

In this dream the anima appears in her pro- 
per positive role that is, as a mediator between 
the ego and the Self. The four-times-four con- 
figuration of the pictures points to the fact that 
the celebration of this inner Mass is performed 
in the service of totality. As Jung has demon- 
strated, the nucleus of the psyche (the Self) 
normally expresses itself in some kind of four- 
fold structure. The number lour is also con- 
nected with the anima because, as Jung noted, 
there are four stages in its development. The 
first stage is best symbolized by the figure of 
Kve, which represents purely instinctual and 
biological relations. Idle second can be seen in 
Faust's Helen: She personifies a romantic and 
aesthetic level that is. however, still character- 
ized by sexual (dements. The third is represen- 
ted. for instance, by the Virgin Mary a figure 
who raises love (eros > to the heights of spiritual 
devotion. The fourth tvpe is symbolized by 
Sapientia. wisdom transcending even the most 
holy and the most pure. Of this another symbol 
is the Shulamile in the Song of Solomon. I n the 

Above, the anima’s third stage is 
personified as the Virgin Mary (in 
a painting by van Eyck). The red of 
her robe is the symbolic color of 
feeling (or eros ); but in this stage 
the eros has become spiritualized. 
Below, two examples of the fourth 
stage: the Greek goddess of wisdom 
Athena (left), and the Mona Lisa. 


psychic development of modern man this stage 
is rarely reached. The Mona Lisa comes nearest 
to such a wisdom anima.) 

At this stage I am only pointing out that the 
Concept of fourfoldness frequently occurs in 
certain types of symbolic material. The essen- 
tial aspects of this will be discussed later. 

But what does the role of the anima as guide 
to the inner world mean in practical terms? 
This positive function occurs 'when a man takes 
seriously the feelings, moods, expectations, and 
fantasies sent by his anima and when he fixes 
them in some form for example, in writing, 
painting, sculpture, musical composition, or 
danc ing. When he works at this patiently and 
slowly, other more deeply unconscious material 
wells up from the depths and connects with the 
earlier material. After a fantasy has been fixed 
in some specific form, it must be examined both 
intellectually and ethically, with an evaluating 
feeling reaction. And it is essential to regard it 
as being absolutely real ; there must be no lurk- 
ing doubt that this is “only a fantasy.* II this 
is practiced with devotion over a long period, 

the process of individuation gradually becomes 
the single reality and can unfold in its true form. 

Many examples from literature show the 
anima as a guide and mediator to the inner 
world: Francesco Colonna’s Hypnerolomachia , 
Rider Haggard’s She, or “the eternal feminine" 
in Goethe's Faust. In a medieval mystical text, 
an anima figure explains her own nature 
as follows: 

I am the flower of the field and the lily of the 
valleys. I am the mother of lair love and of fear 
and of knowledge and of holy hope. ... I am 
the mediator of the elements, making one to agree 
with another; that which is warm I make cold 
and the reverse, and that which is dry I make 
moist and the reverse, and that which is hard I 
soften. ... 1 am the law in the priest and the 
word in the prophet and the counsel in the wise. 

I will kill and I will make to live and there is 
none that can deliver out of my hand. 

In the Middle* Ages there took place* a per- 
ceptible spiritual differentiation in religious, 
poetical, and other cultural matters; and the 
fantasy world of the unconscious was recog- 

*/**^^^ \£? 

Left, a 1 7th century engraving 
dominated by thb symbolic figure 
of the anima as mediator between 
this world (the monkey, probably 
representing man's instinctual 
nature) and the next (the hand of 
God. reaching from the clouds) 

The anima figure seems to parallel 
the woman of the Apocalypse, who 
also wore a crown of 1 2 stars; 
antiquity's moon goddesses; the 
Old Testament s Sapientia (the 
fourth stage of the anima, p 1 85); 
and the Egyptian goddess Isis (who 
also had flowing hair, a half-moon 
at her womb, and stood with one 
foot on land and one on water). 

Right, the anima as mediator (or 
guide) in a drawing by William 
Blake: It illustrates a scene from 
the "Purgatorio" of Dante's Divine 
Comedy, and shows Beatrice leading 
Dante along a symbolically tortuous 
mountain path Far right, from 
an early film of Rider Haggard's 
novel She, a mysterious woman 
leads explorers through mountains. 

1 8 (i 

nized more clearly than before. During this 
period, the knightly cult of the lady signified 
an attempt to differentiate the feminine side of 
man's nature in regard to the outer woman as 
well as in relation to the inner world. 

The lady to whose service the knight pledged 
himself, and for whom he performed his heroic 
deeds, was naturally a personification of the 
anima. The name of the carrier of the Grail, 
in Wolfram von Eschenbacffs version of the 
legend, is especially significant: Conduir-amour 
("guide in love matters”). She taught the hero 
to differentiate both his feelings and his be- 
havior toward women. Later, however, this in- 
dividual and personal effort of developing the 
relationship with the anima was abandoned 
when her sublime aspect fused with the figure 
of the Virgin, who then became the object of 
boundless devotion and praise. When the 
anima, as Virgin, was conceived as being all- 
positive, her negative aspects found expression 
in the belief' in witches. 

In China the figure parallel to that of Mary 
is the goddess Kwan-Yin. A more popular 

A connection between the motif of 
four and the anima appears above in 
a painting by the Swiss artist Peter 
Birkhauser. A four-eyed anima 
appears as an overwhelming, terrifying 
vision. The four eyes have a symbolic 
significance similar to that of the 
1 6 pictures in the dream quoted on 
p. 183: They allude to the fact that 
the anima contains the possibility 
of achieving wholeness. 

In the painting, right, by the 
modern artist Slavko, the 
Self is separate from the anima 
but still merged with nature. The 
painting can be called a "soul 
landscape": On the left sits a 
dark-skinned, naked woman -the 
anima. On the right is a bear, the 
animal soul or instinct. Near the 
anima is a double tree — 
symbolizing the individuation process 
in which the inner opposites unite. 

In the background one at first sees 
a glacier, but on looking closely 
one sees that it is also a face. 

This face (from which the life- 
stream flows) is the Self. It has 
four eyes, and looks something like 
an animal, because it comes from 
instinctive nature. (The painting 
thus provides a good example of 
the way an unconscious symbol can 
inadvertently find its way into 
a fantasy landscape.) 

Chinese anima-figure is the "Lady of the 
Moon/' who bestows the gift of poetry or music 
on her favorites and can even give them im- 
mortality. In India the same archetype is repre- 
sented by Shakti, Parvati, Rati, and many 
others; among the Moslems she is chiefly 
Fatima, the daughter of Mohammed. 

Worship of the anima as an officially recog- 
nized religious figure brings the serious disad- 
vantage that she loses her individual aspects. 
On the other hand, if she is regarded as an 
exclusively personal being, there is the danger 
that, if she is projected into the outer world, it 
is only there that she can be found. This latter 
state of affairs can create endless trouble, be- 
cause man becomes either the victim of his 
erotic fantasies or compulsively dependent on 
one actual woman. 

Only the painful (but essentially simple) de- 
cision to take one’s fantasies and feelings seri- 
ously can at this stage prevent a complete stag- 
nation of the inner process of individuation, 
because only in this way can a man discover 
what this figure means as an inner reality. Thus 
the anima becomes again what she originally 
was the "woman within/' who conveys the 
vital messages of the Self. 

Medieval Europe's idea or'courtly 
love'' was influenced by the worship 
of the Virgin Mary: Ladies to whom 
knights pledged love were believed 
to be as pure as the Virgin (of 
whom a typical medieval image was 
the doll-like carving, top of page, 
c 1 400) On a 1 5th-century shield, 
far left, a knight kneels to his 
lady, with death behind him. This 
idealized view of woman produced 
an opposing view: the belief in 
witches. Left, a 1 9th century 
painting of a witches' sabbath. 

When the anima is projected on to 
an "official" personification, she 
tends to fall apart into a double 
aspect, such as Mary and witch. 
Left, another opposing duality 
(from a 1 5th-century manuscript): 
personifications of the Church 
(on the right, identified with 
Mary) and of the Synagogue (here 
identified with the sinful Eve). 

The animus: the man within 

The male personification of the unconscious in 
woman the animus exhibits both good and 
bad aspects, as does the anima in man. But the 
animus does not so often appear in the form of 
an erotic fantasy or mood; it is more apt to 
take the f orm of a hidden “sacred" conviction. 
When such a conviction is preached with a 
loud, insistent, masculine voice or imposed on 
others by means of brutal emotional scenes, the 
underlying masculinity in a woman is easily 
recognized. However, even in a woman who is 
outwardly very feminine the animus can be an 
equally hard, inexorable power. One may sud- 
denly find oneself up against something in a 
woman that is obstinate, cold, and completely 

One of the favorite themes that the animus 
repeats endlessly in the ruminations of this kind 
of woman goes like this: “The only thing in 
tile world that I want is love- and he doesn't 
love me"; or “In this situation there are only 
two possibilities and both are equally bad." 

(The animus never believes in exceptions.) One 
can rarely contradict an animus opinion be- 
cause it is usually right in a general way; yet 
it seldom seems to fit the individual situation. 
It is apt to be an opinion that seems reasonable 
but beside the point. 

Just as the character of a man’s anima is 
shaped by his mother, so the animus is basically 
influenced by a woman s father. The father 
endows his daughter's animus with the special 
coloring of unarguable, incontestably "true” 
convictions - convictions that never include the 
personal reality of the woman herself as she 
actually is. 

This is why the animus is sometimes, like the 
anima, a demon of death. For example, in a 
gypsy fairy tale a handsome stranger is received 
by a lonely woman in spite of the fact that she 
has had a dream warning her that he is the 
king of the dead. After he has been with her 
for a time, she presses him to tell her who he 
really is. At first he refuses, saying that she will 

Above, Joan of Arc (played by Ingrid 
Bergman in the 1 948 film), whose 
animus — the male side of the female 
psyche^ took the form of a "sacred 
conviction " Right, two images of 
the negative animus: a 1 6th-century 
painting of a woman dancing with 
death; and (from a manuscript c. 

1500) Hades with Persephone, whom 
he abducted to the underworld. 

1 8 () 

Heathcliff. the sinister protagonist 
of the British author Emily Bronte s 
novel, Wuthermg Heights (1847), is 
partly a negative, demonic animus 
figure probably a manifestation of 
Emily Bronte's own animus In the 
montage above, Heathcliff (played 
by Laurence Olivier in the 1 939 
film) confronts Emily (a portrait 
by her brother); in the background. 
Wuthering Heights as it is today. 

Two examples of dangerous animus 
figures: Left, an illustration (by 
the 1 9th-century French artist 
Gustave Dore) to the folk tale of 
Bluebeard Here Bluebeard warns his 
wife against opening a certain door 
(Of course, she does so and finds 
the corpses of Bluebeard s former 
wives She is caught, and joins 
her predecessors ) Right, a 19th 
century painting of the highwayman 
Claude Duval, who once robbed a 
lady traveler but gave his booty back 
on the condition that she dance 
with him by the roadside 

1 90 

die if he tells her. She insists, however, and 
suddenly he reveals to her that he is death 
himself. The woman immediately dies of fright. 

Viewed mythologically, the beautiful stran- 
ger is probably a pagan father-image or god- 
image, who appears here as king of the dead 
like Hades* abduction of Persephone). But 
psychologically he represents a particular form 
of the animus that lures women away from all 
human relationships and especially from all 
contacts with real men. He personifies a cocoon 
ofdreamy thoughts, filled with desire and judg- 
ments about how things “ought to be,” which 
cut a woman off from the reality of life. 

The negative animus does not appear only 
as a death-demon. In myths and fairy tales he 
plays the role of robber and murderer. One 
example is Bluebeard, who secretly kills all his 
wives in a hidden chamber. In this form the 
animus personifies all those semiconscious, cold, 
destructive reflections that invade a woman in 
the small hours, especially when she has failed 
to realize some obligation of feeling. It is then 
that she begins to think about the family herit- 
age and matters of that kind - a sort of web of 
calculating thoughts, filled with malice and in- 

trigue, which get her into a state where she 
even wishes death to others, f When one of us 
dies. I'll move to the Riviera,” said a woman 
to her husband when she saw the beautiful 
Mediterranean coast a thought that was ren- 
dered relatively harmless by reason of the fact 
that she said it ! . 

By nursing secret destructive attitudes, a wife 
can drive her husband, and a mother her chil- 
dren, into illness, accident, or even death. Or 
she may decide to keep the children from 
marrying — a deeply hidden form of evil that 
rarely comes to the surface of the mother's con- 
scious mind. (A naive old woman once said to 
me, w hile showing me a picture of her son, who 
was drowned when he was 27 : “I prefer it this 
way; it's better than giving him away to an- 
other woman." ) 

A strange passivity and paralysis of all feel- 
ing, or a dee]) insecurity that can lead almost 
to a sense of nullity, may sometimes be the 
result of an unconscious animus opinion. In the 
depths of the woman's being, the animus whis- 
pers: “You are hopeless. What's the use of 
trying? There is no point in doing anything. 
Life will never change for the better.” 

The animus is often personified as 
a group of men. A negative group 
animus might appear as a dangerous 
band of criminals like the wreckers 
(above, in an 1 8th-century Italian 
painting) who once lured ships onto 
rocks with lights, killed survivors, 
and looted the wrecks 

A frequent personification of the 
negative group animus in women's 
dreams has been the band of romantic 
but dangerous outlaws. Above, an 
ominous group of bandits from the 
1 953 Brazilian film The Bandit, 
concerning an adventurous woman 
schoolteacher who falls in love 
with a bandit leader. 

Below, an illustration by Fuseli of 
Shakespeare's Midsummer Night's 
Dream. The fairy queen has been 
caused (by magic) to fall in love 
with a peasant who has been given 
an ass's head, also by magic. This 
is a comic twist on the tales in 
which a girl's love releases a man 
from a magic spell. 

•u» dr Pivrltr I'rthur ft Ir iliKrf, 
««vr* tout rr 


Unfortunately, whenever one of these per- 
sonifications of the unconscious takes possession 
of our mind, it seems as if we ourselves are hav- 
ing such thoughts and feelings. The ego identi- 
fies with them to the point where it is unable 
to detach them and see them for what they are. 
One is really “possessed” by the figure from the 
unconscious. Only after the possession has fallen 
away does one realize with horror that one has 
said and done things diametrically opposed to 
one’s real thoughts and feelings — that one has 
been the prey of an alien psychic factor. 

Like the anima, the animus does not merely 
consist of negative qualities such as brutality, 
recklessness, empty talk, and silent, obstinate, 
evil ideas. He too has a very positive and valu- 
able side; he too can build a bridge to the Self 
through his creative activity. The following 
dream of a woman of 45 may help to illustrate 
this point : 

Two veiled figures climb onto the balcony and 
into the house. They are swathed in black hooded 
coats, and they seem to want to torment me and 
my sister. She hides under the bed, but they pull 
her out with a broom and torture her. Then it is 
my turn. The leader of the two pushes me against 
the wall, making magical gestures before my face. 
In the meantime his helper makes a sketch on 
t-he wall, and when I see it, I say (in order to 
seem friendly), “Oh! But this is well drawn!” 
Now suddenly my tormentor has the noble head 
of an artist, and he says proudly, “Yes, indeed,” 
and begins to clean his spectacles. 

Above left, the singer Franz Grass 
in the title role of Wagner's opera 
The Flying Dutchman, based on the 
tale of the sea captain doomed to 
sail a ghost ship until a woman's 
love breaks the curse on him. 

In many myths a woman's lover is 
a figure of mystery whom she must 
never try to see. Left, a late ^ 8th- 
century engraving of an example 
from Greek myth: The maiden Psyche, 
loved by Eros but forbidden to try 
to look at him. Eventually she did 
so and he left her; she was able to 
regain his love only after a long 
search and much suffering. 

The sadistic aspect of these two figures was 
well known to the dreamer, for in reality she 
frequently suffered bad attacks of anxiety dur- 
ing which she was haunted by the thought that 
people she loved were in great danger — or even 
that they were dead. But the fact that the ani- 
mus figure in the dream is double suggests that 
the burglars personify a psychic factor that is 
dual in its effect, and that could be something 
quite different from these tormenting thoughts. 
The sister of the dreamer, who runs away from 
the men, is caught and tortured. In reality this 
sister died when fairly young. She had been 
artistically gifted, but had made very little use 
of her talent. Next the dream reveals that the 
veiled burglars are actually disguised artists, 
and that if the dreamer recognizes their gifts 
(which are her own), they will give up their evil 

What is the deeper meaning of the dream? 
It is that behind the spasms of anxiety there is 
indeed a genuine and mortal danger; but there 
is also a creative possibility for the dreamer. 
She, like the sister, had some talent as a painter, 
but she doubted whether painting could be a 
meaningful activity for her. Now her dream 
tells her in the most earnest way that she must 
live out this talent. If she obeys, the destruc- 
tive, tormenting animus will be transformed 
into a creative and meaningful activity. 

As in this dream, the animus often appears 
as a group of men. In this way the unconscious 
symbolizes the fact that the animus represents 
a collective rather than a personal element. 
Because of this collective-mindedness women 
habitually refer (when their animus is speaking 
through them) to “one” or “they” or “every- 
body,” and in such circumstances their speech 
frequently contains the words “always” and 
“should” and “ought.” 

A vast number of myths and fairy tales tell of 
a prince, turned by witchcraft into a wild ani- 
mal or monster, who is redeemed by the love 
of a girl — a process symbolizing the manner in 
which the animus becomes conscious. (Dr. Hen- 
derson has commented on the significance of 
this “Beauty and the Beast” motif in the pre- 
ceding chapter.) Very often the heroine is not 


allowed to ask questions about her mysterious, 
unknown lover and husband ; or she meets him 
only in the dark and may never look at him. 
The implication is that, by blindly trusting and 
loving him, she will be able to redeem her 
bridegroom. But this never succeeds. She 
always breaks her promise and finally finds her 
lover again only after a long, difficult quest and 
much suffering. 

The parallel in life is that the conscious atten- 
tion a woman has to give to her animus prob- 
lem takes much time and involves a lot of suf- 
fering. But if she realizes who and what her 
animus is and what he does to her, and if she 
faces these realities instead of allowing herself 
to be possessed, her animus can turn into an 
invaluable inner companion who endows her 
with the masculine qualities of initiative, cour- 
age, objectivity, and spiritual wisdom. 

The animus, just like the anima, exhibits four 
stages of development. He first appears as a 
personification of mere physical power for 
instance, as an athletic champion or “muscle 
man.” In the next stage he possesses initiative 
and the capacity for planned action. In the 
third phase, the animus becomes the “word,” 
often appearing as a professor or clergyman. 
Finally, in his fourth manifestation, the animus 
is the incarnation of meaning . On this highest 
level he becomes (like the anima) a mediator 
of the religious experience whereby life acquires 
new meaning. He gives the woman spiritual 
firmness, an invisible inner support that com- 
pensates for her outer softness. The animus in 
his most developed form sometimes connects 
the woman's mind with the spiritual evolution 

Embodiments of the four stages 
of the animus: First, the wholly 
physical man - the fictional 
jungle heroTarzan (top, played by 
Johnny Weismuller) . Second, the 
"romantic'' man the 1 9th-century 
British poet Shelley (center left) ; 
or the "man of action" America's 
Ernest Hemingway, war hero, hunter, 
etc Third, the bearer of the word" 

— Lloyd George, the great political 
orator Fourth, the wise guide to 
spiritual truth — often projected 
on to Gandhi (left). 

Above right, an Indian miniature 
of a girl gazing with love at a 
man's portrait A woman falling 
in love with a picture (or a film 
star) is clearly projecting her 
animus onto the man. The actor 
Rudolph Valentino (right, in a 
film made in 1 922) became the 
focus of animus projection for 
thousands of women while he 
lived —and even after he died 
Far right, part of the immense floral 
tribute sent by women all over the 
world to Valentino's funeral in 1 926 

of her age, and can thereby make her even 
more receptive than a man to new creative 
ideas. It is for this reason that in earlier times 
women were used by many nations as diviners 
and seers. The creative boldness of their posi- 
tive animus at times expresses thoughts and 
ideas that stimulate men to new enterprises. 

The “inner man” within a woman’s psyche 
can lead to marital troubles similar to those 
mentioned in the section on the anima. What 
makes things especially complicated is the fact 
that the possession of one partner by the animus 
(or anima) may automatically exert such an 
irritating effect upon the other that he (or she) 
becomes possessed too. Animus and anima 
always tend to drag conversation down to a 
very low level and to produce a disagreeable, 
irascible, emotional atmosphere. 

As I mentioned before, the positive side of 
the animus can personify an enterprising spirit, 
courage, truthfulness, and in the highest form, 
spiritual profundity. Through him a woman 
can experience the underlying processes of her 
cultural and personal objective situation, and 
can find her way to an intensified spiritual atti- 
tude to life. This naturally presupposes that her 
animus ceases to represent opinions that are 
above criticism. The woman must find the 
courage and inner broadmindedness to question 
the sacredness of her own convictions. Only 
then will she be able to take in the suggestions 
of the unconscious, especially when they con- 
tradict her animus opinions. Only then will the 
manifestations of the Self get through to her, 
and will she be able consciously to understand 
their meaning. 

The Self: symbols of totality 

If an individual has wrestled seriously enough 
and long enough with the anima (or animus) 
problem so that he, or she, is no longer partially 
identified with it, the unconscious again changes 
its dominant character and appears in a new 
symbolic form, representing the Self, the inner- 
most nucleus of the psyche. In the dreams of a 
woman this center is usually personified as a 
superior female figure — a priestess, sorceress, 
earth mother, or goddess of nature or love. In 
the case of a man, it manifests itself as a mas- 
culine initiator and guardian (an Indian guru), 
a wise old man, a spirit of nature, and so forth. 
Two folk tales illustrate the role that such a 
figure can play. The first is an Austrian tale: 

A king has ordered soldiers to keep the night 
watch beside the corpse of a black princess, who 
has been bewitched. Every midnight she rises and 
kills the guard. At last one soldier, whose turn it 
is to stand guard, despairs and runs away into 
the woods. There he meets an “old guitarist who 
is our Lord Himself.” This old musician tells him 
where to hide in the church and instructs him 
on how to behave so that the black princess can- 
not get him. With this divine help the soldier 
actually manages to redeem the princess and 
marry her. 

Clearly, “the old guitarist who is our Lord 
Himself” is, in psychological terms, a symbolic 
personification of the Self. With his help the 
ego avoids destruction and is able to overcome 
— and even redeem — a highly dangerous aspect 
of his anima. 

In a woman’s psyche, as I have said, the Self 
assumes feminine personifications. This is illus- 
trated in the second story, an Eskimo tale: 

A lonely girl who has been disappointed in love 
meets a wizard traveling in a copper boat. He is 
the “Spirit of the Moon,” who has given all the 
animals to mankind and who also bestows luck in 
hunting.. He abducts the girl to the heavenly 
realm. Once, when the Spirit of the Moon has 

left her, she visits a little house near the Moon 
Ghost’s mansion. There she finds a tiny woman 
clothed in the “intestinal membrane of the 
bearded seal,” who warns the heroine against the 
Spirit of the Moon, saying that he plans to kill 
her. (It appears that he is a killer of women, a 
sort of Bluebeard.) The tiny woman fashions a 
long rope by means of which the girl can descend 
to earth at the time of the new moon, which is 
the moment when the little woman can weaken 
the Moon Spirit. The girl climbs down, but when 
she arrives on earth, she does not open her eyes 
as quickly as the little woman told her to. Because 
of this, she is turned into a spider and can never 
become human again. 

As we have noted, the divine musician in the 
first tale is a representation of the “wise old 
man,” a typical personification of the Self. He 
is akin to the sorcerer Merlin of medieval 
legend or to the Greek god Hermes. The little 
woman in her strange membrane-clothing is a 
parallel figure, symbolizing the Self as it 
appears in the feminine psyche. The old musi- 
cian saves the hero from the destructive anima, 
and the little woman protects the girl against 
the Eskimo “Bluebeard” (who is, in the form of 
the Moon Spirit, her animus). In this case, how- 
ever, things go wrong — a point that I shall take 
up later. 

The Self, however, does not always take the 
form of a wise old man or wise old woman. 
These paradoxical personifications are attempts 
to express something that is not entirely con- 
tained in time — something simultaneously 
young and old. The dream of a middle-aged 
man shows the Self appearing as a young man : 

Coming from the street, a youth rode down 
into our garden. (There were no bushes and no 
fence as there are in real life, and the garden lay 
open.) I did not quite know if he came on pur- 
pose, or if the horse carried him here against 
his will. 

I stood on the path that leads to my studio and 
watched the arrival with great pleasure. The sight 


The Self — the inner center of the 
total psyche — is often personified 
in dreams as a superior human 
figure. To women, the Self might 
appear as a wise and powerful 
goddess — like the ancient Greek 
mother goddess Demeter (right, 
shown with her son T riptolemus 
and daughter Kore, in a fifth - 
century-B.c. relief). The "fairy 
godmother" of many tales is also 
a symbolic personification of the 
female Self: above, Cinderella's 
godmother (from an illustration 
by Gustave Dore) Below, a helpful 
old woman (also a fairy godmother) 
rescues a girl in an illustration of a 
Hans Christian Andersen tale. 

Personifications of the Self in 
men's dreams often take the form 
of "wise old men." Far left, the 
magician Merlin of the Arthurian 
legends (in a 14th-century English 
manuscript). Center, a guru 
(wise man) from an 1 8th-century 
Indian painting. Left, a winged 
old man like this appeared in one 
of Dr. Jung's own dreams carrying 
keys: according to Dr. Jung he 
represented "superior insight." 

Thomas Sully. Washington at the 
Passage of the Delaware. Courtesy 
Museum of Fine Arts, Boston 

The Self usually appears in dreams 
at crucial times in the dreamer's 
life — turning points when his basic 
attitudes and whole way of life are 
changing. The change itself is 
often symbolized by the action of 
crossing water. Above, an actual 
river crossing that accompanied 
an important upheaval: George 
Washington's crossing of the 
Delaware River during the American 
Revolution (in a 1 9th-century 
American painting). Left, another 
major event that involved crossing 
water: the first attack launched 
against the Normandy beaches on 
D-day, June 1 944. 


The Self is not always personified 
as a superior old person Left, a 
painting (of a dream) by Peter 
Birkhauser, in which the Self 
appears as a marvelous youth. 

While the artist was working on 
the painting, other associations and 
ideas came up from his unconscious. 
The round object like a sun behind 
the youth is a symbol of totality, 
and the boy's four arms recall other 
"fourfold” symbols that characterize 
psychological wholeness. Before the 
boy's hands hovers a flower— as if 
he need only raise his hands and a 
magical flower will appear. He is 
black because of his nocturnal (i.e. 
unconscious) origin. 

of tlx* boy on his beautiful horse impressed me 

The horse was a small, wild, powerful animal, 
a symbol of energy (it resembled a boar), and it 
had a thick, bristly, silvery-gray coat. The boy 
rode past me between the studio and house, 
jumped off his horse, and led him carefully away 
so that he would not trample on the flower bed 
with its beautiful red and orange tulips. The 
flower bed had been newly made and planted by 
my wife (a dream occurrence). 

This youth signifies the Self, and with it re- 
newal of life, a creative elan vital , and a new 
spiritual orientation by means of which every- 
thing becomes full of life and enterprise. 

If a man devotes himself to the instructions 
of his own unconscious, it can bestow this gift, 
so that suddenly life, which has been stale and 
dull, turns into a rich, unending inner adven- 
ture, full of creative possibilities. In a woman's 
psychology, this same youthful personification 
of the Self can appear as a supernaturally gifted 
girl. The dreamer in this instance is a woman 
in her late forties: 

I stood in front of a church and was washing 
the pavement with water. Then 1 ran down the 
street just at the moment when the students from 
the high school were let out. I came to a stagnant 
river across which a board or tree trunk had been 
laid; but when I was attempting to walk across, 
a mischievous student bounced on the board so 
that it cracked and I nearly fell into the water. 

“Idiot!” I yelled out. On the other side of the 
river three little girls were playing, and one of 
them stretched out her hand as if to help me. I 
thought that her small hand was not strong 
enough to help me, but when I took it, she suc- 
ceeded, without the slightest effort, in pulling me 
across and up the bank on the other side. 

The dreamer is a religious person, but 
according to her dream she cannot remain in 
the Church (Protestant) any longer; in fact, she 
seems to have lost the possibility of entering it, 
although she tries to keep the access to it as 
clean as she can. According to the dream, she 
must now cross a stagnant river, and this indi- 
cates that the flow of life is slowed down 
because of the unresolved religious problem. 
(Crossing a river is a frequent symbolic image 
for a fundamental change of attitude.) The 
student was interpreted by the dreamer herself 
as the personification of a thought that she had 
previously had — namely, that she might satisfy 
her spiritual yearning by attending high school. 
Obviously the dream does not think much of 
this plan. When she dares to cross the river 
alone, a personification of the Self (the girl), 
small but supernaturally powerful, helps her. 

But the form of a human being, whether 
youthful or old, is only one of the many ways 
in which the Self can appear in dreams or 
visions. The various ages it assumes show not 
only that it is with us throughout the wTole of 
life, but also that it exists beyond the con- 


Many people today personify the 
Self in their dreams as prominent 
public figures Jungian psychologists 
find that, in men's dreams, 

Dr. Albert Schweitzer (far left) and 
Sir Winston Churchill (left) 
often appear; in women's dreams, 
Eleanor Roosevelt (right) and 
Queen Elizabeth II (far right, a 
portrait on an African house) 

sciouslv realized flow of life — which is w'hat 
creates our experience of time. 

Just as the Self is not entirely contained in 
our conscious experience of time (in our space- 
time dimension), it is also simultaneously omni- 
present. Moreover, it appears frequently in a 
form that hints at a special omnipresence; that 
is, it manifests itself as a gigantic, symbolic 
human being who embraces and contains the 
whole cosmos. When this image turns up in the 
dreams of an individual, we may hope for a 
creative solution to his conflict, because now 
the vital psychic center is activated (i.e. the 
whole being is condensed into oneness) in order 
to overcome the difficulty. 

It is no wonder that this figure of the Cosmic 
Man appears in many myths and religious 
teachings. Generally he is described as some- 
thing helpful and positive. He appears as 
Adam, as the Persian Gayomart, or as the 
Hindu Purusha. This figure may even be de- 
scribed as the basic principle of the whole world. 
The ancient Chinese, for instance, thought that 
before anything whatever was created, there 
was a colossal divine man called P'an Ku who 
gave heaven and earth their form. When he 
cried, his tears made the Yellow River and the 
Yangtze River; when he breathed, the wind 
rose; when he spoke, thunder was loosed; and 
wffien he looked around, lightning flashed. If he 
w r as in a good mood, the weather was fine; if 
he was sad, it clouded over. When he died, he 
fell apart, and from his body the five holy 
mountains of China sprang into existence. His 
head became the T'ai mountain in the East, 
his trunk became the Sung mountain in the cen- 
ter, his right arm the Heng mountain in the 
North, his left arm the Heng mountain in the 
South, and his feet the Hua mountain in the 
West. His eyes became the sun and moon. 

We have already seen that symbolic struc- 
tures that seem to refer to the process of indi- 
viduation tend to be based on the motif of the 
number four — such as the four functions of 
consciousness, or the four stages of the anima 
or animus. It reappears here in the cosmic 
shape of P'an Ku. Only under specific circum- 
stances do other combinations of numbers 
appear in the psychic material. The natural un- 
hampered manifestations of the center are 
characterized by fourfoldness— that is to say, by 
having four divisions, or some other structure 
deriving from the numerical series of 4, 8, 16, 
and so on. Number 16 plays a particularly im- 
portant role, since it is composed of four fours. 

In our Western civilization, similar ideas of 
a Cosmic Man have attached themselves to the 
symbol of Adam, the First Man. There is a 
Jewish legend that when God created Adam, 
he first gathered red, black, white, and yellow 
dust from the four corners of the world, and 
thus Adam "reached from one end of the world 
to the other." When he bent down, his head 
was in the East and his feet in the West. 
According to another Jewish tradition, the 
whole of mankind was contained in Adam from 
the beginning, which meant the soul of every- 
body who w'ould ever be born. The soul of 
Adam, therefore, was "like the wick of a lamp 
composed of innumerable strands." In this 
symbol the idea of a total oneness of all human 
existence, beyond all indiv idual units, is clearly 

In ancient Persia, the same original First 
Man - called Gayomart — w ; as depicted as a 
huge figure emitting light. When he died, every 
kind of metal sprang from his body, and from 
his soul came gold. His semen fell upon the 
earth, and from it came the first human couple 
in the form of two rhubarb shrubs. It is striking 


»[t amt##.* 

.I'tW tjf . f iyu 

that the Chinese P’an Ku was also depicted 
covered by leaves like a plant. Perhaps this is 
because the First Man was thought of as a self- 
grown, living unit that just existed without any 
animal impulse or self-will. Among a group of 
people who live on the banks of the Tigris, 
Adam is still, at the present time, worshiped as 
the hidden “super-soul" or mystical "protective 
spirit" of the entire human race. These people 
say that he came from a date palm- another 
repetition of the plant motif. 

In the East, and in some gnostic circles in the 
West, people soon recognized that the Cosmic 
Man was more an inner psychic image than a 
concrete outer reality. According to Hindu 
tradition, for instance, he is something that lives 
within the individual human being and is the 
only part that is immortal. This inner Great 
Man redeems the individual by leading him 
out of creation and its sufferings, back into his 
original eternal sphere. But he can do this only 
if man recognizes him and rises from his sleep 
in order to be led. In the symbolic myths of 

old India, this figure is known as the Purusha, 
a name that simply means “man” or “per- 
son.” The Purusha lives within the heart of 
every individual, and yet at the same time he 
fills the entire cosmos. 

According to the testimony of many myths, 
the Cosmic Man is not only the beginning but 
also the final goal of all life— of the whole of 
creation. “All cereal nature means wheat, all 
treasure nature means gold, all generation 
means man," says the medieval sage Meister 
Eckhart. And if one looks at this from a psy- 
chological standpoint, it is certainly so. The 
whole inner psychic reality of each individual 
is ultimately oriented toward this archetypal 
symbol of the Self. 

In practical terms this means that the exist- 
ence of human beings will never be satisfactorily 
explained in terms of isolated instincts or pur- 
posive mechanism such as hunger, power, sex, 
survival, perpetuation of the species, and so on. 
That is, man's main purpose is not to eat, drink, 
etc., but to be human. Above and beyond these 
drives, our inner psychic reality serves to mani- 
fest a living mystery that can be expressed only 
by a symbol, and for its expression the uncon- 
scious often chooses the powerful image of the 
Cosmic Man. 

In our Western civilization the Cosmic Man 
has been identified to a great extent with Christ, 
and in the East with Krishna or with Buddha. 
In the Old Testament this same symbolic figure 
turns up as the “Son of Man" and in later 
Jewish mysticism is called Adam Kadmon. 
Certain religious movements of late antiquity 
simply called him Anthropos (the Greek word 
for man). Like all symbols this image points to 

Top left, a Rhodesian rock painting 
of a creation myth, in which the 
First Man (the moon) mates with 
the morning star and evening star 
to produce the creatures of earth 
Cosmic Man often appears as an 
Adam like original man — and Christ, 
too, has become identified with 
this personification of the Self: 

Top right, a painting by the 1 5th- 
century German artist Grunewald 
shows the figure of Christ with 
all the majesty of Cosmic Man 


an unknowable secret — to the ultimate un- 
known meaning of human existence. 

As we have noted, certain traditions assert 
that the Cosmic Man is the goal of creation, 
but the achievement ofthisshould not be under- 
stood as a possible external happening. From 
the point of view of the Hindu, for example, it 
is not so much that the external world will one 
day dissolve into the original Great Man, but 
that the ego's extraverted orientation toward 
the external world will disappear in order to 
make way for the Cosmic Man. This happens 
when the ego merges into the Self. The ego’s 
discursive flow of representations (which goes 
from one thought to another) and its desires 
(which run from one object to another) calm 
down when the Great Man within is encount- 
ered. Indeed, we must never forget that for us 
outer reality exists only in so far as we perceive 
it consciously, and that we cannot prove that 
it exists “in and by itself." 

The many examples coming from various 
civilizations and different periods show the uni- 

Examples of the "royal couple" (a 
symbolic image of psychic totality 
and the Self): left, a third century 
a.d Indian sculpture of Siva and 
Parvati, hermaphroditically joined; 
below, the Hindu deities Krishna 
and Radha in a grove. 

The Greek head, below left, was 
shown by Dr. Jung to be subtly two- 
sided (i.e. hermaphroditic). In 
a letter to the owner Jung added 
that the head "has, like his analogs 
Adonis, Tammuz, and . Baldur, all 
the grace and charm of either sex." 


Right, a pre Roman sculpture of the 
Celtic bear-goddess Artio, found 
at Berne (which means "bear"). 

She was probably a mother goddess, 
resembling the she-bear in the 
dream quoted on this page Further 
correspondences to symbolic images 
in this dream: Center. Australian 
aborigines with their "sacred 
stones," which they believe contain 
the spirits of the dead Bottom, 
from a 1 7th-century alchemical 
manuscript, the symbolic royal 
couple as a pair of lions. 

versality of the symbol of the Great Man. His 
image is present in the minds of men as a sort 
of goal or expression of the basic mystery of 
our life. Because this symbol represents that 
which is whole and complete, it is often con- 
ceived of as a bisexual being. In this I'orm the 
symbol reconciles one of the most important 
pairs of psychological opposites— male and 
female. This union also appears frequently in 
dreams as a divine, royal, or otherwise distin- 
guished couple. The following dream of a man 
of 47 shows this aspect of the Self in a dra- 
matic way : 

I am on a platform, and below me I see a huge, 
black, beautiful she-bear with a rough but well- 
groomed coat. She is standing on her hind legs, 
and on a stone slab she is polishing a flat oval 
black stone, which becomes increasingly shiny. 
Not far away a lioness and her cub do the same 
thing, but the stones they are polishing are bigger 
and round in shape. After a while the she-bear 
turns into a fat, naked woman with black hair 
and dark, fiery eyes. I behave in an erotically pro- 
vocative wav toward her, and suddenly she moves 
nearer in order to catch me. I get frightened and 
take refuge up on the building of sea Holding 
where I was before. Later I am in the midst of 
many women, half of whom are primitive and 
have rich black hair (as if they are transformed 
from animals); the other half are our women [of' 
the same nationality as the dreamer] and have 
blonde or brown hair. The primitive women sing 
a very sentimental song in melancholy, high- 
pitched voices. Now, in a high elegant carriage, 
there comes a young man who wears on his head 
a royal golden crown, set with shining rubies 


a very beautiful sight. Beside him sits a blonde 
young woman, probably his wife, but without a 
crown. It seems that the lioness and her cub have 
been transformed into this couple. They belong 
to the group of primitives. Now all the women 
(the primitives and the others) intone a solemn 
song, and the royal carriage slowly travels toward 
the horizon. 

Here the inner nucleus of the dreamer's 
psyche shows itself at first in a temporary vision 
of the royal couple, which emerges from the 
depths of his animal nature and the primitive 
layer of his unconscious. The she-bear in the 
beginning is a sort of mother goddess. (Artemis, 
for instance, was worshiped in Greece as a she- 
bear.) The dark oval stone that she rubs and 
polishes probably symbolizes the dreamer's in- 
nermost being, his true personality. Rubbing 
and polishing stones is a well-known, exceed- 
ingly ancient activity of man. In Europe '‘holy" 
stones, wrapped in bark and bidden in caves, 
have been found in many places; as containers 
ofdivine powers they were probably kept there 
by men of the Stone Age. At the present time 
some of the Australian aborigines believe that 
their dead ancestors continue to exist in stones 
as virtuous and divine powers, and that if they 
rub these stones, the power increases (like 
charging them with electricity) for the benefit 
of both the living and the dead. 

The man who had the dream we are discus- 
sing had hitherto refused to accept a marital 
bond with a woman. His fear of being caught 
by this aspect of life caused him, in the dream, 
to fiee from the bear-woman to the spectator's 
platform where he could passively watch things 
without becoming entangled. Through the 
motif of the stone being rubbed by the bear, the 
unconscious is trying to show' him that he should 
let himself come into contact with this side of 
life; it is through the frictions of married life 
that his inner being can be shaped and polished. 

When the stone is polished, it will begin to 
shine like a mirror so that the bear can see her- 
self in it; this means that only by accepting 
earthly contact and suffering can the human 
soul be transformed into a mirror in which the 
divine powers can perceive themselves. But the 

In dreams a mirror can symbolize 
the power of the unconscious to 
"mirror'' the individual objectively 
giving him a view of himself that 
he may never have had before. Only 
through the unconscious can such a 
view (which often shocks and upsets 
the conscious mind) be obtained — 
just as in Greek myth the Gorgon 
Medusa, whose look turned men to 
stone, could be gazed upon only in 
a mirror. Below, Medusa reflected 
in a shield (a painting by the 1 7th 
century artist Caravaggio). 

dreamer runs away to a higher place i.e. into 
all sorts of reflections by which he can escape 
the demands of life. The dream then shows him 
that if he runs away from the demands of life, 
one part of his soul (his anima) will remain 
undifferentiated, a fact symbolized by the group 
of nondescript women that splits apart into a 
primitive half and a more civilized one. 

The lioness and her son, which then appear 
on the scene, personify the mysterious urge to- 
ward individuation, indicated by their work at 
shaping the round stones. (A round stone is a 
symbol of the Self.) The lions, a royal couple, 
arc in themselves a symbol of totality. In medi- 
eval symbolism, the “philosopher's stone" (a 


pre-eminent symbol of man's wholeness) is re- 
presented as a pair of lions or as a human 
couple riding on lions. Symbolically, this points 
to the fact that often the urge toward individu- 
ation appears in a veiled form, hidden in the 
overwhelming passion one may feel for another 
person. (In fact, passion that goes beyond the 
natural measure of love ultimately aims at the 
mystery of becoming whole, and this is why one 
feels, when one has fallen passionately in love, 
that becoming one with the other person is the 
only worthwhile goal of one’s life.) 

As long as the image of totality in this dream 
expresses itself in the form of a pair of lions, it 
is still contained in some such overwhelming 
passion. But when lion and lioness have turned 
into a king and queen, the urge to individuate 
has reached the level of conscious realization, 
and can now be understood by the ego as being 
the real goal of life. 

Before the lions had transformed themselves 
into human beings, it was only the primitive 
women who sang, and they did so in a senti- 
mental manner; that is to say, the feelings of 
the dreamer remained on a primitive and sen- 
timental level. But in honor of the humanized 
lions, both the primitive and the civilized 
women chant a common hymn of praise. Their 
expression of their feelings in a united form 
shows that the inner split in the animal has now 
changed into inner harmony. 

Still another personification of the Self 
appears in a report of a woman’s so-called 
'‘active imagination.” (Active imagination is a 
certain way of meditating imaginatively, by 

Often the Self is represented as a 
helpful animal (a symbol of the 
psyche's instinctual basis). Top left, 
the magic fox of Grimm'sfairy tale 
"The Golden Bird." Center, the 
Hindu monkey god Hanuman 
carrying two gods in his heart. 

Bottom, Rrn Tin Tin the heroic dog 
once popular in American films and 

Stones are frequent images of the 
Self (because they are complete — 
i.e. unchanging — and lasting). 

Many people today look for stones 
of special beauty — perhaps on 
beaches, top right Some Hindus 
pass from father to son stones 
(center) believed to have magical 
powers. "Precious" stones, like the 
jewels of Queen Elizabeth I (1 558 
1 603), bottom, are an outward 
sign of wealth and position. 

which one may deliberately enter into contact 
with the unconscious and make a conscious 
connection with psychic phenomena. Active 
imagination is among the most important of 
Jung’s discoveries. While it is in a sense com- 
parable to Eastern forms of meditation, such as 
the technique of Zen Buddhism or of Tantric 
Yoga, or to Western techniques like those of 
the Jesuit Exercitia, it is fundamentally differ- 
ent in that the meditator remains completely 
devoid of any conscious goal or program. Thus 
the meditation becomes the solitary experiment 
of a free individual, which is the reverse of a 
guided attempt to master the unconscious. This, 
however, is not the place to enter into a de- 
tailed analysis of active imagination ; the reader 
will find one of Jung’s descriptions of it in his 
paper on "The Transcendent Function/') 

I n the woman’s meditation the Self appeared 
as a deer, which said to the ego: “I am your 
child and your mother. They call me the "con- 
necting animal' because I connect people, ani- 
mals, and even stones with one another if I enter 
them. I am your fate or the ‘objective 1/ When 
I appear, 1 redeem you from the meaningless 
hazards of life. The fire burning inside me burns 
in the whole of nature. If a man loses it, he 
becomes egocentric, lonely, disoriented, and 

The Self is often symbolized as an animal, 
representing our instinctive nature and its con- 
nectedness with one's surroundings. (That is 
why there are so many helpful animals in 
myths and fairy tales. ) This relation of the Self 
to all surrounding nature and even the cosmos 
probably comes from the fact that the “nuclear 
atom" of our psyche is somehow woven into 
the whole world, both outer and inner. All the 
higher manifestations of life are somehow- tuned 
to the surrounding space-time continuum. 
Animals, for example, have their own special 
foods, their particular home-building materials, 
and their definite territories, to all of which 
their instinctive patterns are exactly tuned and 
adapted. Time rhythms also play their part: 
We have only to think of the fact that most 
grass-eating animals have their young at pre- 
cisely the time of year when the grass is richest 


and most abundant. With such considerations 
in mind, a well-known zoologist has said that 
the “inwardness" of each animal reaches far 
out into the world around it and “psychifies" 
time and space. 

In ways that are still completely beyond our 
comprehension, our unconscious is similarly 
attuned to our surroundings to our group, to 
society in general, and, beyond these, to the 
space-time continuum and the whole of nature. 
Thus the Great Man of the Naskapi Indians 
does not merely reveal inner truths; he also 
gives hints about where and when to hunt. And 
so from dreams the Naskapi hunter evolves the 
words and melodies of the magical songs with 
which he attracts the animals. 

But this specific help from the unconscious 
is not given to primitive man alone. Jung dis- 
covered that dreams can also give civilized man 
the guidance he needs in finding his way 
through the problems of both his inner and his 
outer life. Indeed, many of our dreams are con- 
cerned with details of our outer file and our 
surroundings. Such things as the tree in front 
of the window, one's bicycle or car, or a stone 
picked up during a walk may be raised to the 

level of symbolism through our dream life and 
become meaningful. If we pay attention to our 
dreams, instead of living in a cold, impersonal 
world of meaningless chance, we may begin to 
emerge into a world of our own, full of impor- 
tant and secretly ordered events. 

Our dreams, however, are not as a rule 
primarily concerned with our adaptation to 
outer life. In our civilized world, most dreams 
have to do with the development (by the ego) 
of the “right" inner attitude toward the Self, 
for this relationship is far more disturbed in us 
by modern ways of thinking and behaving than 
is the case with primitive people. They gen- 
erally live directly from the inner center, but 
we, with our uprooted consciousness, are so 
entangled with external, completely foreign 
matters that it is very difficult for the messages 
of the Self to get through to us. Our conscious 
mind continually creates the illusion ofa clearly 
shaped, “real" outer world that blocks ofTmany 
other perceptions. Yet through our unconscious 
nature we are inexplicably connected to our 
psychic and physical environment. 

I have already mentioned the fact that the 
Self is symbolized with special frequency in the 

The 'eternal'' quality of stones can 
be seen in pebbles or mountains 
Left, rocks beneath Mt. Williamson, 
California Thus stone has always 
been used for memorials— like the 
heads of four U S. presidents 
(above) carved in the cliff face 
of Mt. Rushmore, South Dakota 
Stones were also often used to mark 
places of worship — as was the sacred 
stone in the Temple of Jerusalem 
(far right). It was the center of 
the city; and (as the medieval map, 
right, shows) the city was seen as 
the center of the world. 

form of a stone, precious or otherwise. We saw 
an example of this in the stone that was being 
polished by the she-bear and the lions. In many 
dreams the nuclear center, the Self, also appears 
as a crystal. The mathematically precise 
arrangement of a crystal evokes in us the intui- 
tive feeling that even in so-called “dead” mat- 
ter there is a spiritual ordering principle at 
work. Thus the crystal often symbolically stands 
for the union of extreme opposites — of matter 
and spirit. 

Perhaps crystals and stones are especially apt 
symbols of the Self because of the “just-so-ness” 
of their nature. Many people cannot refrain 
from picking up stones of a slightly unusual 
color or shape and keeping them, without know- 
ing why they do this. It is as if the stones held 
a living mystery that fascinates them. Men have 
collected stones since the beginning of time and 
have apparently assumed that certain ones were 
the containers of the life-force with all its mys- 
tery. The ancient Germans, for instance, be- 
lieved that the spirits of the dead continued to 
live in their tombstones. The custom of placing 
stones on graves may spring partly from the 
symbolic idea that something eternal of the dead 

person remains, which can be most fittingly 
represented by a stone. For while the human 
being is as dififerent as possible 1'rom a stone, yet 
man’s innermost center is in a strange and 
special way akin to it ( perhaps because the stone 
symbolizes mere existence at the farthest remove 
from the emotions, feelings, fantasies, and 
discursive thinking of ego-consciousness j . In 
this sense the stone symbolizes what is perhaps 
the simplest and deepest experience - the ex- 
perience of something eternal that man can 
have in those moments when he feels immortal 
and unalterable. 

The urge that we find in practically all civili- 
zations to erect stone monuments to famous 
men or on the site of important events probably 
also stems from this symbolic meaning of the 
stone. The stone that Jacob placed on the spot 
where he had his famous dream, or certain 
stones left by simple people on the tombs of 
local saints or heroes, show the original nature 
of the human urge to express an otherwise inex- 
pressible experience by the stone-symbol. It is 
no wonder that many religious cults use a stone 
to signify God or to mark a place of worship. 
The holiest sanctuary of the Islamic world is the 


Ka'aba, the black stone in Mecca to which all 
pious Moslems hope to make their pilgrimage. 

According to Christian ecclesiastical sym- 
bolism, Christ is “the stone which the builders 
rejected,” which became “the head of the cor- 
ner” (Luke xx: 17). Alternatively he is called 
the “spiritual rock” from which the water of 
life springs (1 Cor. x: 4). Medieval alchemis.ts, 
who searched for the secret of matter in a pre- 
scientific way, hoping to find God in it, or 
at least the working of divine activity, believed 
that this secret was embodied in their famous 
“philosopher’s stone.” But some of the alche- 
mists dimly perceived that their much-sought- 
after stone was a symbol of something that can 
be found only within the psyche of man. An 
old Arabian alchemist, Morienus, said: “This 
thing [the philosopher’s stone] is extracted from 
you: you are its mineral, and one can find it 
in you; or, to put it more clearly, they [the 
alchemists] take it from you. If you recognize 
this, the love and approbation of the stone will 
grow within you. Know that this is true with- 
out doubt.” 

The alchemical stone (the lapis) symbolizes 
something that can never be lost or dissolved, 
something eternal that some alchemists com- 
pared to the mystical experience of God within 
one’s own soul. It usually takes prolonged 
suffering to burn away all the superfluous 
psychic elements concealing the stone. But some 
profound inner experience of the Selfdoes occur 
to most people at least once in a lifetime. From 
the psychological standpoint, a genuinely reli- 
gious attitude consists of an effort to discover 
this unique experience, and gradually to keep 
in tune with it (it is relevant that a stone is 
itself something permanent] , so that the Self be- 
comes an inner partner toward whom cue's 
attention is continually turned. 

The fact that this highest and most frequent 
symbol of the Self is an object of lifeless mat- 
ter points to yet another field of inquiry and 
speculation: that is, the still unknown relation- 
ship between what we call the unconscious 
psyche and what we call “matter”-- a mystery 
with which psychosomatic medicine endeavors 
to grapple. In studying this still undefined and 

Left, the Black Stone of Mecca, 
blessed by Mohammed (in an Arabic 
manuscript illustration) to integrate 
it into the Islamic religion. It is 
carried by four tribal chieftains 
(at the four corners of a carpet) 
into the Ka'aba, the holy sanctuary 
to which thousands of Moslems make 
an annual pilgrimage (below left). 

Right, another symbolic stone: 
the Stone of Scone (or Stone of 
Destiny) on which Scottish kings 
were formerly crowned. It was taken 
to England’s Westminster Abbey in 
the 1 3th century, but it never lost 
its importance for Scotland. On 
Christmas Day, 1 950, a group of 
Scottish Nationalists stole the 
Stone from the Abbey and took it 
back to Scotland. (It was returned 
to the Abbey in April 1 951 ) 

Right, a tourist kisses the famous 
''Blarney Stone'' of Irish legend It 
is supposed to confer the gift of 
eloquence on those who kiss it. 

unexplained connection (it may prove to be that 
“psyche” and “matter” are actually the same 
phenomenon, one observed from “within” and 
the other from “without”), Dr. Jung put for- 
ward a new concept that he called synchroni- 
city. This term means a “meaningful coinci- 
dence” of outer and inner events that are not 
themselves causally connected. The emphasis 
lies on the word “meaningful.” 

If an aircraft crashes before my eyes as I am 
blowing my nose, this is a coincidence of events 
that has no meaning. It is simply a chance 
occurrence of a kind that happens all the time. 
But if I bought a blue frock and, by mistake, 
the shop delivered a black one on the day one 
of my near relatives died, this would be a 
meaningful coincidence. The two events are not 
causally related, but they are connected by the 
symbolic meaning that our society gives to the 
color black. 

Wherever Dr. Jung observed such meaningful 
coincidences in an individual’s life, it seemed (as 
the individual’s dreams revealed) that there 
was an archetype activated in the unconscious 
of the individual concerned. To illustrate this by 
my example of the black frock: In such a case 
the person who receives the black frock might 
also have had a dream on the theme of death. 
It seems as if the underlying archetype is mani- 
festing itself simultaneously in inner and exter- 
nal events. The common denominator is a 
symbolically expressed message — in this case a 
message about death. 

As soon as we notice that certain types of 
event “like” to cluster together at certain times, 
we begin to understand the attitude of the 
Chinese, whose theories of medicine, philoso- 
phy, and even building are based on a “science" 
of meaningful coincidences. The classical Chi- 
nese texts did not ask what causes what, but 
rather what “likes” to occur with what. One can 

A painting by the modern artist 
Hans Haffenrichter resembles the 
pattern of a crystal — like ordinary 
stone, a symbol of wholeness. 

see much the same underlying theme in astro- 
logy, and in the way various civilizations have 
depended on consulting oracles and paying at- 
tention to omens. All of these are attempts to 
provide an explanation of coincidence that is 
different from one that depends on straightfor- 
ward cause and effect. 

In creating the concept of synchronicity, Dr. 
Jung sketched a way in which we might pene- 
trate deeper into the inter-relation of psyche 
and matter. And it is precisely toward such a 
relation that the symbol of the stone seems to 
point. But this is still a completely open and 
insufficiently explored matter, with which 
future generations of psychologists and physi- 
cists must deal. 

It may seem that my discussion of synchroni- 
city has led me away from my main theme, but 
I feel it is necessary to make at least a brief 
introductory reference to it because it is a 
Jungian hypothesis that seems to be pregnant 
with future possibilities of investigation and 
application. Synchronistic events, moreover, 
almost invariably accompany the crucial phases 
of the process of individuation. But too often 
they pass unnoticed, because the individual has 
not learned to watch for such coincidences and 
to make them meaningful in relation to the 
symbolism of his dreams. 

21 i 

The relation to the Self 

Nowadays more and more people, especially 
those who live in large cities, suffer from a ter- 
rible emptiness and boredom, as if they were 
waitingforsomethingthat never arrives. Movies 
and television, spectator sports and political 
excitements may divert them for a while, but 
again and again, exhausted and disenchanted, 
they have to return to the wasteland of their 
own lives. 

The only adventure that is still worthwhile 
for modern man lies in the inner realm of the 
unconscious psyche. With this idea vaguely in 
mind, many now turn to Yoga and other 
Eastern practices. But these offer no genuine 
new adventure, for in them one only takes over 
what is already known to the Hindus or the 
Chinese without directly meeting one’s own 
inner life center. While it is true that Eastern 
methods serve to concentrate the mind and 
direct it inward (and that this procedure is in 
a sense similar to the introversion of an analy- 
tical.treatment), there isa very important differ- 
ence. Jung evolved a way of getting' to one’s 
inner center and making contact with the living 
mystery of the unconscious, alone and unaided. 
That is utterly different from following a well- 
worn path. 

Trying to give the living reality of the Self 
a constant amount of daily attention is like 
trying to live simultaneously on two levels or in 
two different worlds. One gives one’s mind, as 

before, to outer duties, but at the same time 
one remains alert for hints and signs, both in 
dreams and in external events, that the Self 
uses to symbolize its intentions — the direction in 
which the life-stream is moving. 

Old Chinese texts that are concerned with 
this kind of experience often use the simile of 
the cat watching the mousehole. One text says 
that one should allow no other thoughts to in- 
trude, but one’s attention should not be too 
sharp — nor should it be too dull. There is 
exactly the right level of perception. “If the 
training is undergone in this manner ... it will 
be effective as time goes on, and when the cause 
comes to fruition, like a ripe melon that auto- 
matically falls, anything it may happen to 
touch or make contact with will suddenly cause 
the individual’s supreme awakening. This is the 
moment when the practitioner will be like one 
who drinks water and alone knows whether it 
is cold or warm. He becomes free of all doubts 
about himself and experiences a great happiness 
similar to that one feels in meeting one’s own 
father at the crossroads.” 

Thus, in the midst of ordinary outer life, 
one is suddenly caught up in an exciting inner 
adventure; and because it is unique for each 
individual, it cannot be copied or stolen. 

There are two main reasons why man loses 
contact with the regulating center of his soul. 
One of them is that some single instinctive drive 

or emotional image can carry him into a one- 
sidedness that makes him lose his balance. This 
also happens to animals; for example, a sexu- 
ally excited stag will completely forget hunger 
and security. This one-sidedness and consequent 
loss of balance are much dreaded by primitives, 
who call it “loss of soul/' Another threat to the 
inner balance comes from excessive daydream- 
ing, which in a secret way usually circles around 
particular complexes. In fact, daydreams arise 
just because they connect a man with his com- 
plexes; at the same time they threaten the con- 
centration and continuity of his consciousness. 

The second obstacle is exactly the opposite, 
and is due to an over-consolidation of ego- 
consciousness. Although a disciplined conscious- 
ness is necessary for the performance of civilized 
activities (we know what happens if a railway 
signalman lapses into daydreaming), it has the 
serious disadvantage that it is apt to block the 
reception ofimpulses and messages coming from 
the center. This is why so many dreams of 
civilized people are concerned with restoring 
this receptivity by attempting to correct the 
attitude of consciousness toward the uncon- 
scious center or Self. 

Among the mythological representations of 
the Self one finds much emphasis on the four 
corners of the world, and in many pictures the 
Great Man is represented in the center of a 
circle divided into four. Jung used the Hindu 

word mandala (magic circle) to designate a 
structure of this order, which is a symbolic re- 
presentation of the “nuclear atom'' of the 
human psyche — whose essence we do not know. 
In this connection it is interesting that a Nas- 
kapi hunter pictorially represented his Great 
Man not as a human being but as a mandala. 

Whereas the Naskapi experience the inner 
center directly and naively, without the help of 
religious rites or doctrines, other communities 
use the mandala motif in order to restore a lost 
inner balance. Forinstance, the Navaho Indians 
try, by means of mandala-structured sand 
paintings, to bring a sick person back into har- 
mony with himself and with the cosmos- and 
thereby to restore his health. 

In Eastern civilizations similar pictures arc 
used to consolidate the inner being, or to enable 
one to plunge into deep meditation. The con- 
templation of a mandala is meant to bring an 
inner peace, a feeling that life has again found 
its meaning and order. The mandala also con- 
veys this feeling when it appears spontaneously 
in the dreams of modern men who are not influ- 
enced by any religious tradition of this sort and 
know nothing about it. Perhaps the positive 
effect is even greater in such cases because 
knowledge and tradition sometimes bl ur or even 
block the spontaneous experience. 

An example of a spontaneously produced 
mandala occurs in the following dream of a 62 - 

The feel i ngs of boredom and apathy 
from which city dwellers today often 
suffer is only temporarily offset 
by such artificial excitements as 
adventure films (far left) and time- 
killing amusements" (left) Jung 
stressed that the only real adventure 
remaining for each individual is the 
exploration of his own unconscious. 
The ultimate goal of such a search 
is the forming of a harmonious and 
balanced relationship with the Self. 
The circular mandala images this 
perfect balance —embodied in the 
structure of the modern cathedral 
(right) of the city of Brasilia. 

Top, a Navaho makes a sand painting 
(a mandala) in a heating ritual; the 
patient sits in the painting. Above, 
a plan of a sand painting; it must be 
circled by a patient before entering. 

Left, a winter landscape by the 
German artist Kaspar Friedrich. 
Landscape paintings usually express 
indefinable "moods” — as do 
symbolic landscapes in dreams. 

year-old woman. It emerged as a prelude to a 
new phase of life in which she became very 
creative : 

I see a landscape in a dim light. In the back- 
ground I see the rising and then evenly continu- 
ing crest of a hill. Along the line where it rises 
moves a quadrangular disk that shines like gold. 
In the foreground I see dark plowed earth that is 
beginning to sprout. Now I suddenly perceive a 
round table with a gray stone slab as its top, and 
at the same moment the quadrangular disk sud- 
denly stands upon the table. It has left the hill, 
but how and why it has changed its place I do 
not know. 

Landscapes in dreams (as well as in art) fre- 
quently symbolize an inexpressible mood. In 
this dream, the dim ligh t of the landscape indi- 
cates that the clarity of daytime consciousness 
is dimmed. “Inner nature'’ may now begin to 
reveal itself in its own light, so we are told that 
the quadrangular disk becomes visible on the 
horizon. Hitherto the symbol of the Self, the 
disk, had been largely an intuitive idea on the 
dreamer’s mental horizon, butnowin thedream 
it shifts its position and becomes the center of 
the landscape of her soul. A seed, sown long 
ago, begins to sprout: for a long time previ- 
ously the dreamer had paid careful attention 
to her dreams, and now this work bears fruit. 
(One is reminded of the relation between the 
symbol of the Great Man and plant life, which 

I mentioned before.) Now the golden disk sud- 
denly moves to the “right” side— the side where 
things become conscious. Among other things 
“right” often means, psychologically, the side 
of consciousness, of'adaptation, of being “right,” 
while “left” signifies the sphere of unadapted, 
unconscious reactions or sometimes even of 
something “sinister.” Then, finally, the golden 
disk stops its movement and comes to rest on 
significantly— a round stone table. It has found 
a permanent base. 

As Aniela Jaffe observes later in this book, 
roundness (the mandala motif) generally sym- 
bolizes a natural wholeness, whereas a quadr- 
angular formation represents the realization of 
this in consciousness. In the dream the square 
disk and the round table meet, and thus a con- 
scious realization of the center is at hand. The 
round table, incidentally, is a well-known sym- 
bol of wholeness and plays a i-ole in mythology 
— for instance, King Arthur's round table, 
which itself is an image derived from the table 
of the Last Supper. 

In fact, whenever a human being genuinely 
turns to the inner world and tries to know him- 
self-- not by ruminating about his subjective 
thoughts and feelings, but by following the ex- 
pressions of his own objective nature such as 
dreams and genuine fantasies then sooner or 
later the Self emerges. The ego will then find 
an inner power that contains all the possibilities 
of renewal. 

In the paintings, left, of the dream 
quoted on this page (painted by the 
dreamer), the mandala motif appears 
as a quadrangle rather than a circle 
Usually quadrangular forms symbolize 
conscious realization of inner 
wholeness; the wholeness itself is 
most often represented in circular 
forms, such as the round table that 
also appears in the dream. Right, 
the legendary Round Table of King 
Arthur (from a 1 5th-century 
manuscript), at which the Holy 
Grail appeared in a vision and 
started the knights on the famous 
quest. The Grail itself symbolizes 
the inner wholeness for which men 
have always been searching. 

But there is a great difficulty that I have 
mentioned only indirectly up till now. This is 
that every personification of the unconscious 
the shadow, the anima, the animus, and the Self 
-has both a light and a dark aspect. We saw 
before that the shadow may be base or evil, an 
instinctive drive that one ought to overcome. 
It may, however, be an impulse toward growth 
that one should cultivate and follow. In the 
same way the anima and animus have dual 
aspects: They can bringlife-givingdevelopment 
and creativeness to the personality, or they can 
cause petrification and physical death. And 
even the Self, the all-embracing symbol of the 
unconscious, has an ambivalent effect, as for in- 
stance in the Eskimo tale (page 196), when 
the '‘little woman'' offered to save the heroine 
from the Moon Spirit but actually turned her 
into a spider. 

The dark side of the Self is the most dan- 
gerous thing of all, precisely because the Self 
is the greatest power in the psyche. It can 
cause people to "‘spin'' megalomaniac or other 
delusory fantasies that catch them up and 
“possess” them. A person in this state thinks 
with mounting excitement that he has grasped 
and solved the great cosmic riddles; he there- 
fore loses all touch with human reality. A re- 
liable symptom of this condition is the loss of 
one's sense of humor and of human contacts. 

Thus the emerging of the Self may bring 
great danger to a man's conscious ego. The 
double aspect of the Self is beautifully illustra- 
ted by this old Iranian fairy tale, called “The 
Secret of the Bath Badgerd 

The great and noble Prince Hatim Tai receives 
orders from his king to investigate the mysterious 
Bath Badgerd [castle of nonexistence). When he 
approaches it, having gone through many dan- 
gerous adventures, he hears that nobody ever re- 
turned from it, hut he insists on going on. He is 
received at a round building by a barber with a 
mirror who leads him into the bath, but as soon 
as the prince enters the water, a thunderous noise 
breaks out, it gets completely dark, the barber 
disappears, and slowly the water begins to rise. 

Hatim swims desperately round until the water 
finally reaches the top of the round cupola, which 
forms the roof of the bath. Now he fears he is 
lost, but he says a prayer and grabs the center- 
stone of the cupola. Again a thunderous noise, 
everything changes, and Hatim stands alone in a 

After long and painful wandering, he comes to 
a beautiful garden in the middle of which is a 
circle of stone statues. In the center of the statues, 
he sees a parrot in its cage, and a voice from above 
says to him: “Oh, hero, you probably will not 
escape alive from this bath. Once Gayomart [the 
First Man] found an enormous diamond that 
shone more brightly than sun and moon. He de- 
cided to hide it where no one can find it, and 
therefore he built this magical bath in order to 

protect it. The parrot that you see here forms 
part of the magic. At its feet lie a golden bow and 
arrow on a golden chain, and with them you 
may try three times to shoot the parrot. If you 
hit him the curse will be lifted; if not, you will 
be petrified, as were all these other people." 

Hatim tries once, and fails. His legs turn to 
stone. He fails once more and is petrified up to 
his chest. The third time he just shuts his eyes, 
exclaiming “God is great," shoots blindly, and 
this time hits the parrot. An outbreak of thun- 
der, clouds of dust. When all this has subsided, in 
place of the parrot is an enormous, beautiful dia- 
mond, and all the statues have come to life again. 
The people thank him for their redemption. 

The reader will recognize the symbols of the 
Self in this story the First Man Gayomart, the 
round mandala-shaped building, the center- 
stone, and the diamond. But this diamond is 
surrounded by danger. The demonic parrot 
signifies the evil spirit of imitation that makes 
one miss the target and petrify psychologically. 
As I pointed out earlier, the process of indivi- 
duation excludes any parrot-like imitation of 
others. Time and again in all countries people 
have tried to copy in “outer” or ritualistic be- 
havior the original religious experience of their 
great religious teachers — Christ or Buddha or 
some other master and have therefore become 
“petrified." To follow in the steps of a great 
spiritual leader does not mean that one should 

copy and act out the pattern of the indiv idua- 
tion process made by his life. It means that we 
should try with a sincerity and devotion equal 
to his to live our own lives. 

The barber with the mirror, who vanishes, 
symbolizes the gift of reflection that Hatim 
loses when he wants it most; the rising waters 
represent the risk that one may drown in the 
unconscious and get lost in one’s own emotions. 
In order to understand the symbolic indications 
of the unconscious, one must be careful not to 
get outside oneself or “beside oneself," but to 
stay emotionally within oneself. Indeed, it is 
vitally important that the ego should continue 
to function in normal ways. Only if I remain 
an ordinary human being, conscious of my in- 
completeness, can I become receptive to the 
significant contents and processes of the uncon- 
scious. But how can a human being stand the 
tension of feeling himself at one with the whole 
universe, while at the same time he is only a 
miserable earthly human creature? If, on the 
one hand, I despise myself as merely a statistical 
cipher, my life has no meaning and is not worth 
living. But if, on the other hand, I feel myself 
to be part of something much greater, how am 
I to keep my feet on the ground? It is very 
difficult indeed to keep these inner opposites 
united within oneself without toppling over into 
one or the other extreme. 

Far left, the torrential waters 
of the river Heraclitos overwhelm 
a Greek temple, in a painting by 
the modern French artist Andre 
Masson. The painting can be seen 
as an allegory of the results of 
imbalance: Greek overemphasis on 
logic and reason (the temple) 
leading to a destructive eruption 
of instinctual forces Left, a 
more direct allegory, from a 
1 bth-century illustration to the 
French allegorical poem Le Roman 
de la Rose, the figure of Logic (on 
the right) is thrown into confusion 
when confronted by Nature. 

Right, the repentant St Mary 
Magdalen gazes into a mirror (in 
a painting by the 1 7th century 
French artist Georges de la Tour). 
Here, as in the tale of the Bath 
Badgerd, the mirror symbolizes the 
much- needed faculty of true, 
inward- looking "reflection." 

The social aspect of the Self 

Today the enormous growth of population, 
especially obvious in large cities, inevitably has 
a depressing effect on us. We think, “Oh, well, 
I am only so-and-so living at such-and-such an 
address, like thousands of other people. If a 
few of them get killed, what difference can it 
make? There are far too many people in any 
case.' 1 And when we read in the paper about the 
deaths of innumerable unknown people who 
personally mean nothing to us, the feeling that 
our lives count for nothing is further increased. 
This is the moment when attention to the un- 
conscious brings the greatest help, for dreams 
show the dreamer how each detail of his life is 
interwoven with the most significant realities. 

What we all know theoretically — that every 
thing depends on the individual — becomes 
through dreams a palpable fact that everyone 
can experience for himself. Sometimes we have 
a strong feeling that the Great Man wants 
something from us and has set us very special 
tasks. Our response to this experience can help 
us to acquire the strength to swim against the 
stream of collective prejudice by taking our 
own soul seriously into account. 

Naturally this is not always an agreeable 
task. For instance, you want to make a trip with 

friends next Sunday; then a dream forbids it 
and demands that you do some creative work 
instead. If you listen to your unconscious and 
obey it, you must expect constant interference 
with your conscious plans. Your will is crossed 
by other intentions — intentions that you must 
submit to, or at any rate must seriously con- 
sider. This is partly why the obligation attached 
to the process of individuation is often felt to be 
a burden rather than an immediate blessing. 

St. Christopher, the patron of all travelers, 
is a fitting symbol for this experience. According 
to the legend, he felt an arrogant pride in his 
tremendous physical strength, and was willing 
to serve only the strongest. First he served a 
king; but when he saw that the king feared 
the devil, he left him and became the devil’s 
servant. Then one day he discovered that the 
devil feared the crucifix, and so he decided to 
serve Christ if he could find him. He followed 
the advice of a priest who told him to wait for 
Christ at a ford. In the years that passed he 
carried many people across the river. But once, 
on a dark, stormy night, a small child called 
out that he wanted to be carried over the river. 
With the greatest ease, St. Christopher lifted 
the child on to his shoulders, but he walked 



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The achievement of psychological 
maturity is an individual task — 
and so is increasingly difficult 
today when man's individuality is 
threatened by widespread conformity. 
Far left, a British housing development 
with its stereotyped dwellings; 
left, a Swiss athletics display 
provides an image of mass 

more slowly with every step, for his burden be- 
came heavier and heavier. When he arrived in 
midstream, he felt “as if he carried the whole 
universe/’ He realized then that he had taken 
Christ upon his shoulders — and Christ gave 
him remission of his sins and eternal life. 

This miraculous child is a symbol of the Self 
that literally “depresses” the ordinary human 
being, even though it is the only thing that can 
redeem him. In many works of art the Christ 
child is depicted as, or with, the sphere of the 
world, a motif that clearly denotes the Self, for 
a child and a sphere are both universal symbols 
of totality. 

When a person tries to obey the unconscious, 
he will often, as we have seen, be unable to do 
just as he pleases. But equally he will often be 
unable to do what other people want him to 
do. It often happens, for instance, that he must 
separate from his group— from his family, his 
partner, or other personal connections — in 
order to find himself. That is why it is sometimes 
said that attending to the unconscious makes 
people antisocial and egocentric. As a rule this 
is not true, for there is a little-known factor that 
enters into this attitude: the collective (or, we 
could even say, social) aspect of the Self. 

Above, a page from William Blake’s 
Songs of Innocence and Experience, 
in which the poems reveal Blake's 
concept of the "divine child" — a 
well-known symbol of the Self. 
Right, a 1 6th-century painting of 
St. Christopher carrying Christ 
as a divine child (who is encircled 
by a world sphere — a mandala and 
a symbol of the Self) . This burden 
symbolizes the "weight" of the 
task of individuation — just as St. 
Christopher's role as the patron 
of travelers (far right, a St. 
Christopher medallion on a car's 
ignition key) reflects his link 
with man's need to travel the path 
to psychological wholeness. 

From a practical angle this factor reveals 
itself in that an individual who follows his 
dreams for a considerable time will find that 
they are often concerned with his relationships 
with other people. His dreams may warn him 
against trusting a certain person too much, or 
he may dream about a favorable and agreeable 
meeting with someone whom he may previously 
have never consciously noticed. If a dream does 
pick up the image of another person for us in 
some such fashion, there are two possible inter- 
pretations. First, the figure may be a projection, 
which means that the dream-image of this per- 
son is a symbol for an inner aspect of the 
dreamer himself. One dreams, for instance, of 
a dishonest neighbor, but the neighbor is used 
by the dream as a picture of one's own dis- 
honesty. It is the task of dream interpretation 
to find out in which special areas one's own 
dishonesty comes into play. (This is called 
dream interpretation on the subjective level.) 

But it also happens at times that dreams 
genuinely tell us something about other people. 
In this way, the unconscious plays a role that is 
far from being fully understood. Like all the 
higher forms of life, man is in tune with the 
living beings around him to a remarkable de- 
gree. He perceives their sufferings and prob- 
lems, their positive and negative attributes and 
values, instinctively quite independently of 
his conscious thoughts about other people. 

Our dream life allows us to have a look at 
these subliminal perceptions and shows us that 
they have an effect upon us. After having an 
agreeable dream about somebody, even with- 
out interpreting the dream, I shall involuntarily 
look at that person with more interest. The 
dream image may have deluded me, because 
of my projections; or it may have given me 
objective information. To find out which is the 

The conscious realization of the 
Self can create a bond among people 
that ignores more obvious, natural 
groups like the family (above left). 

A mental kinship on a conscious 
level can often be the nucleus of 
cultural development: above, the 
1 8th -century French encyclopedists 
(including Voltaire, with raised 
hand); below, a painting by Max Ernst 
of the early 20th-century 'Dadaist'' 
artists; and research physicists 
at Britain's Wills Laboratory. 


The psychological balance and unity 
that man needs today have been 
symbolized in many modern dreams 
by the union of the French girl 
and the Japanese man in the widely 
popular French film Hiroshima Mon 
Amour (1 959), above. And in the 
same dreams, the opposite extreme 
from wholeness (i.e. complete 
psychological dissociation, or 
madness) has been symbolized by 
a related 20th-century image — 
a nuclear explosion (right). 

correct interpretation requires an honest, atten- 
tive attitude and careful thought. But, as is the 
case with all inner processes, it is ultimately the 
Sell that orders and regulates one's human rela- 
tionships, so long as the conscious ego takes 
the trouble to detect the delusive projections 
and deals with these inside himself instead of 
outside. It is in this way that spiritually attuned 
and similarly oriented people find their way to 
one another, to create a group that cuts across 
all the usual social and organizational affilia- 
tions of people. Such a group is not in conflict 
with others; it is merely different and inde- 
pendent. The consciously realized process of 
individuation thus changes a person's relation- 
ships. The familiar bonds such as kinship or 
common interests are replaced by a different 
type of unity — a bond through the Self. 

All activities and obligations that belong ex- 
clusively to the outer world do definite harm to 
the secret activities of the unconscious. Through 
these unconscious ties those who belong to- 
gether come together. That is one reason why 
attempts to influence people by advertisements 
and political propaganda are destructive, even 
when inspired by idealistic motives. 

This raises the important question ofwhether 
the unconscious part of the human psyche can 

be influenced at all. Practical experience and 
accurate observation show that one cannot in- 
fluence one's own dreams. There are people, it 
is true, who assert that they can influence them. 
But if you look into their dream material, you 
find that they do only what I do with my dis- 
obedient dog; I order him to do those things 1 
notice he wants to do anyhow, so that I can 
preserve my illusion of authority. Only a long 
process of' interpreting one's dreams and con- 
fronting oneself with what they have to say can 
gradually transform the unconscious. And con- 
scious attitudes also must change in this process. 

If a man who wants to influence public 
opinion misuses symbols for this purpose, they 
will naturally impress the masses in so far as 
they are true symbols, but whether or not the 
mass unconscious will be emotionally gripped 
by them is something that cannot be calculated 
in advance, something that remains completely 
irrational. No music publisher, for instance, can 
tell in advance whether a song will become a 
hit or not, even though it may draw on popular 
images and melodies. No deliberate attempts to 
influence the unconscious have yet produced 
any significant results, and it seems that the 
mass unconscious preserves its autonomy just 
as much as the individual unconscious. 

22 I 

At times, in order to express its purposes, the 
unconscious may use a motif from our external 
world and thus may seem to have been influ- 
enced by it. For instance, I have come across 
many dreams of modern people that have to 
do with Berlin. In these dreams Berlin stands 
as a symbol of the psychic weak spot — the 
place of danger — and for this reason is the 
place where the Self is apt to appear. It is the 
point where the dreamer is torn by conflict and 
where he might, therefore, be able to unite the 
inner opposites. I have also encountered an 
extraordinary number ofdream reactions to the 
film Hiroshima Mon Amour. In most of these 
dreams the idea was expressed that either the 
two lovers in the film must unite (which sym- 
bolizes the union of inner opposites) or there 
would be an atomic explosion (a symbol of com- 
plete dissociation, equivalent to madness). 

Only when the manipulators of public 
opinion add commercial pressure or acts of 
violence to their activities do they seem to 
achieve a temporary success. But in fact this 
merely causes a repression of the genuine un- 
conscious reactions. And mass repression leads 
to the same result as individual repression ; that 
is, to neurotic dissociation and psychological 
illness. All such attempts to repress the reactions 
of the unconscious must fail in the long run, for 
they are basically opposed to our instincts. 

We know from studying the social behavior 
of the higher animals that small groups (from 
approximately 10 to 50 individuals) create the 

As in the dream quoted on p. 223, 
positive anima figures often assist 
and guide men. Top of page, from a 
10th-century psalter, David inspired 
by the muse. Above, a goddess 
saves a shipwrecked sailor (in a 1 6th- 
century painting) Right, on an early 
20th-century postcard from Monte 
Carlo, gamblers' “Lady Luck" — also 
a helpful anima. 

Right, Liberty leading the French 
revolutionaries (in a painting by 
Delacroix) images the anima's 
function of assisting individuation 
by liberating unconscious contents. 
Far right, in a scene from the 1 925 
fantasy film Metropolis, a woman 
urges robot- like workers to find 
spiritual "liberation." 


best possible living conditions for the single 
animal as well as for the group, and man seems 
to be no exception in this respect. His physical 
well-being, his spiritual psychic health, and, 
beyond the animal realm, his cultural efficiency 
seem to flourish best in such a social function. 
As far as we at present understand the process 
of individuation, the Self apparently tends to 
produce such small groups by creating at the 
same time sharply defined ties of feeling be- 
tween certain individuals and feelings of re- 
latedness to all people. Only if these connections 
are created by the Self can one feel any assur- 
ance that envy, jealousy, fighting, and all man- 
ner of negative projections will not break up the 
group. Thus an unconditional devotion to one's 
own process of individuation also brings about 
the best possible adaptation. 

This does not mean, of course, that there 
will not be collisions of opinion and conflicting 
obligations, or disagreement about the 'Tight" 
way, in the face of which one must constantly 
withdraw and listen to one's inner voice in 
order to find the individual standpoint that the 
Self intends one to have. 

Fanatical political activity (but not the per- 
formance of essential duties) seems somehow 
incompatible with individuation. A man who 
devoted himself entirely to freeing his country 
from foreign occupation had this dream: 

With some of my compatriots I go up a stair- 
way to the attic of a museum, where there is a 

hall painted black and looking like a cabin on a 
ship. A distinguished-looking middle-aged lady 
opens the door; her name is X, daughter of X. 
[X was a famous national hero of the dreamer's 
country who attempted some centuries ago to free 
it. He might be compared to Joan of Arc or Wil- 
liam Tell. In reality X had no children.] In the 
hall we see the portraits of two aristocratic ladies 
dressed in flowery brocaded garments. While Miss 
X is explaining these pictures to us, they sud- 
denly come to life; first the eyes begin to live, and 
then the chest seems to breathe. People are sur- 
prised and go to a lecture room where Miss X 
will speak to them about the phenomenon. She 
says that through her intuition and feeling these 
portraits came alive; but some of the people are 
indignant and say that Miss X is mad; some even 
leave the lecture room. 

The important feature of this dream is that 
the anima figure, Miss X, is purely a creation 
of the dream. She has, however, the name of a 
famous national hero-liberator (as if she were, 
for instance, Wilhclmina Tell, the daughter of 
William Tell). By the implications contained in 
the name, the unconscious is pointing to the 
fact that today the dreamer should not try, as 
X did long ago, to free his country in an outer 
way. Now, the dream says, liberation is accom- 
plished by the anima (by the dreamer’s soul), 
who accomplishes it by bringing the images of 
the unconscious to life. 

That the hall in the attic of the museum 
looks partly like a ship’s cabin painted black is 
very meaningful. The black color hints at dark- 
ness, night, a turning inward, and if the hall is 

a cabin, then the museum is somehow also a 
ship. This suggests that when the mainland of 
collective consciousness becomes flooded by un- 
consciousness and barbarism, this museum-ship, 
filled with living images, may turn into a saving 
ark that will carry those who enter it to another 
spiritual shore. Portraits hanging in a museum 
are usually the dead remains of the past, and 
often the images of the unconscious are re- 
garded in the same way until we discover that 
they are alive and meaningful. When the anima 
(who appears here in her rightful role of soul- 
guide) contemplates the images with intuition 
and feeling, they begin to live. 

The indignant people in the dream represent 
the side of the dreamer that is influenced by 
collective opinion — something in him that dis- 
trusts and rejects the bringing to life of psychic 
images. They personify a resistance to the un- 
conscious that might express itself something 
like this: “But what if they begin dropping 
atom bombs on us? Psychological insight won’t 
be much help then!” 

This resistant side is unable to free itself from 
statistical thinking and from extraverted 
rational prejudices. The dream, however, points 
out that in our time genuine liberation can start 
only with a psychological transformation. To 
what end does one liberate one’s country if 
afterward there is no meaningful goal of life — 
no .goal for which it is worthwhile to be free? 
If man no longer finds any meaning in his life, 
it makes no difference whether he wastes away 
under a Communist or a capitalist regime. Only 
if he can use his freedom to create something 
meaningful is it relevant that he should be free. 
That is why finding the inner meaning of life 
is more important to the individual than any- 
thing else, and why the process of individuation 
must be given priority. 

Attempts to influence public opinion by 
means of newspapers, radio, television, and 
advertising are based on two factors. On the 
one hand, they rely on sampling techniques that 
reveal the trend of “opinion” or “wants” that 
is, of collective attitudes. On the other, they 
express prejudices, projections, and uncon- 
scious complexes (mainly the power complex) 

of those who manipulate public opinion. But 
statistics do no justice to the individual. 
Although the average size of stones in a heap 
may be five centimeters, one will find very few 
stones of exactly this size in the heap. 

That the second factor cannot create any- 
thing positive is clear from the start. But if a 
single individual devotes himself to individua- 
tion, he frequently has a positive contagious 
effect on the people around him. It is as if a 
spark leaps from one to another. And this usu- 
ally occurs when one has no intention of influ- 
encing others and often when one uses no 
words. It is onto this inner path that Miss X 
tried to lead the dreamer. 

Nearly all religious systems on our planet 
contain images that symbolize the process of 
individuation, or at least some stages of it. In 
Christian countries the Self is projected, as I 
said before, onto the second Adam: Christ. In 
the East the relevant figures are those of 
Krishna and Buddha. 

For people who are contained in a religion 
(that is, who still really believe in its content 
and teachings), the psychological regulation of 
their lives is effected by religious symbols, and 
even their dreams often revolve around them. 
When the late Pope Pius XII issued the decla- 
ration of the Assumption of Mary, a Catholic 
woman dreamed, for instance, that she was a 
Catholic priestess. Her unconscious seemed to 
extend the dogma in this way : “If Mary is now 
almost a goddess, she should have priestesses.” 
Another Catholic woman, who had resistances 
to some of the minor and outer aspects of her 
creed, dreamed that the church of her home 
city had been pulled down and rebuilt, but that 
the tabernacle with the consecrated host and 
the statue of the Virgin Mary were to be trans- 
ferred from the old to the new church. The 
dream showed her that some of the man-made 
aspects of her religion needed renewal, but that 
its basic symbols — God’s having become Man, 
and the Great Mother, the Virgin Mary — 
would survive the change. 

Such dreams demonstrate the living interest 
that the unconscious takes in the conscious re- 
ligious representations of an individual. This 


raises the question whether it is possible to de- 
tect a general trend in all the religious dreams 
of contemporary people. In the manifestations 
of the unconscious found in our modern Chris- 
tian culture, whether Protestant or Catholic, 
Dr. Jung often observed that there is an un- 
conscious tendency at work to round off our 
trinitarian formula of the Godhead with a 
fourth element, which tends to be feminine, 
dark, and even evil. Actually this fourth ele- 
ment has always existed in the realm of our 
religious representations, but it was separated 
from the image of God and became his coun- 
terpart, in the form of matter itself (or the lord 
of matter — i.e. the devil). Now the unconscious 
seems to want to reunite these extremes, the 
light having become too bright and the dark- 
ness too somber. Naturally it is the central sym- 
bol of religion, the image of the Godhead, that 
is most exposed to unconscious tendencies to- 
ward transformation. 

A Tibetan abbot once told Dr. Jung that the 
most impressive mandalas in Tibet are built up 
by imagination, or directed fantasy, when the 
psychological balance of the group is disturbed 
or when a particular thought cannot be rend- 
ered because it is not yet contained In the sac- 
red doctrine and must therefore be searched 
for. In these remarks, two equally important 
basic aspects of mandala symbolism emerge. 
The mandala serves a conservative purpose — 
namely, to restore a previously existing order. 

But it also serves the creative purpose of giving 
expression and form to something that does 
not yet exist, something new and unique. The 
second aspect is perhaps even more important 
than the first, but docs not contradict it. For, 
in most cases, what restores the old order simul- 
taneously involves some element of new crea- 
tion. In the new order the older pattern returns 
on a higher level. The process is that of the 
ascending spiral, which grows upward while 
simultaneously returning again and again to the 
same point. 

A painting by a simple woman who was 
brought up in Protestant surroundings shows a 
mandala in the form of a spiral. In a dream 
this woman received an order to paint the God- 
head. Later (also in a dream) she saw it in a 
book. Of God himself she saw only his wafting 
cloak, the drapery of which made a beautiful 
display of light and shadow. This contrasted 
impressively with the stability of the spiral in 
the deep blue sky. Fascinated by the cloak and 
the .spiral, the dreamer did not look closely at 
the other figure on the rocks. When she awoke 
and thought about who these divine figures 
were, she suddenly realized that it was “God 
himself. ” This gave her a frightful shock, which 
she felt for a long time. 

Usually the Holy Ghost is represented in 
Christian art by a fiery wheel or a dove, but 
here it has appeared as a spiral. This is a new 
thought, “not yet contained in the doctrine,” 

This 1 5th-century statue of Mary 
contains within it images of both 
God and Christ— a clear expression 
of the fact that the Virgin Mary 
can be said to be a representation 
of the "Great Mother" archetype. 


A miniature from the 1 5th-century 
French Book of Hours, showing Mary 
with the Holy Trinity. The Catholic 
Church's dogma of the Assumption 
of the Virgin — in which Mary, as 
domina rerum. Queen of Nature, was 
declared to have entered heaven 
with soul and body reunited— can 
be said to have made the Trinity 
fourfold, corresponding with the 
basic archetype of completeness. 

which has spontaneously arisen from the un- 
conscious. That the Holy Ghost is the power 
that works for the further development of our 
religious understanding is not a new idea, of 
course, but its symbolic representation in the 
form of a spiral is new. 

The same woman then painted a second 
picture, also inspired by a dream, showing the 
dreamer with her positive animus standing 
above Jerusalem when the wing of Satan de- 
scends to darken the city. The satanic wing 
strongly reminded her of the wafting cloak of 
God in the first painting, but in the former 
dream the spectator is high up, somewhere in 
heaven, and sees in front of her a terrific split 
between the rocks. The movement in the cloak 
of God is an attempt to reach Christ, the figure 
on the right, but it does not quite succeed. In 
the second painting, the same thing is seen from 
below r from a human angle. Looking at it 
from a higher angle, what is moving and 
spreading is a part of God ; above that rises the 
spiral as a symbol of possible further develop- 
ment. But seen from the basis of our human 
reality, this same thing in the air is the dark, 
uncanny wing of the devil. 

In the dreamer's life these two pictures be- 
came real in a way that does not concern us 
here, but it is obvious that they also contain a 
collective meaning that reaches beyond the per- 
sonal. They may prophesy the descent of a 
divine darkness upon the Christian hemisphere, 
a darkness that points, however, toward the 
possibility of further evolution. Since the axis 
of the spiral does not move upward but into 
the background of the picture, the further evo- 
lution will lead neither to greater spiritual 
height nor down into the realm of matter, but 
to another dimension, probably into the back- 
ground of these divine figures. And that means 
into the unconscious. 

When religious symbols that are partly dif- 
ferent from those we know emerge from the 
unconscious of an individual, it is often feared 
that these will wrongfully alter or diminish the 
officially recognized religious symbols. This fear 
even causes many people to reject analytical 
psychology and the entire unconscious. 


II' I look at such a resistance from a psy- 
chological point of view, I should have to com- 
ment that as far as religion is concerned, 
human beings can be divided into three types. 
First, there are those who still genuinely believe 
their religious doctrines, whatever they may be. 
For these people, the symbols and doctrines 
‘"click" so satisfyingly with what they feel deep 
inside themselves that serious doubts have no 
chance to sneak in. This happens when the 
views of consciousness and the unconscious 
background are in relative harmony. People of 
this sort can afford to look at new psycho- 
logical discoveries and facts without prejudice 
and need not fear that they may be caused to 
lose their faith. Even if their dreams should 
bring up some relatively unorthodox details, 
these can be integrated into their general view. 

The second type consists of those people who 
have completely lost their faith and have re- 
placed it with purely conscious, rational 
opinions. For these people, depth psychology 
simply means an introduction into newly dis- 
covered areas of the psyche, and it should cause 
no trouble when they embark on the new ad- 
venture and investigate their dreams to test the 
truth of them. 

Then there is a third group of people who in 
one part of themselves (probably the head) no 
longer believe in their religious traditions. 

w hereas in some other part they still do believe. 
The French philosopher Voltaire is an illustra- 
tion of this. He violently attacked the Catholic 
Church with rational argument (ecrasez /Vw- 
fame), but on his deathbed, according to some 
reports, he begged for extreme unction. 
Whether this is true or not, his head was cer- 
tainly unreligious, whereas his feelings and 
emotions seem still to have been orthodox. Such 
people remind one of a person getting stuck 
in the automatic doors of a bus; he can neither 
get out into free space nor re-enter the bus. Of 
course the dreams of such persons could prob- 
ably help them out of their dilemma, but such 
people frequently have trouble turning toward 
the unconscious because they themselves do not 
know what they think and want. To take the 
unconscious seriously is ultimately a matter of 
personal courage and integrity. 

The complicated situation of those w ho are 
caught in a no-man's-land between the two 
states of mind is partly created by the fact that 
all official religious doctrines actually belong to 
the collective consciousness (what Freud called 
the super-ego) ; but once, long ago, they sprang 
from the unconscious. This is a point that many 
historians of religion and theologians challenge. 
They choose to assume that there was once 
some sort of "revelation." I have searched for 
many years for concrete evidence for the Jun- 

Paintings of the dreams discussed 
on pp 225 6: Left, the spiral (a 
form of mandala) represents the 
Holy Ghost; right, the dark wing 
of Satan, from the second dream 
Neither motif would be a familiar 
religious symbol to most people 
(nor were they to the dreamer): 
Each emerged spontaneously 
from the unconscious. 

gian hypothesis about this problem ; but it has 
been difficult to find because most rituals are 
so old that one cannot trace their origin. The 
following example, however, seems to me to 
offer a most important clue: 

Black Elk, a medicine man of the Oglala 
Sioux, who died not long ago, tells us in his 
autobiography Black Elk Speaks that, when he 
was nine years old, he became seriously ill and 
during a sort of coma had a tremendous vision. 
He saw four groups of beautiful horses coming 
from the four corners of the world, and then, 
seated within a cloud, he saw the Six Grand- 
fathers, the ancestral spirits of his tribe, “the 
grandfathers of the whole world.” They gave 
him six healing symbols for his people and 
showed him new ways of life. But when he was 
16 years old, he suddenly developed a terrible 
phobia whenever a thunder storm was ap- 
proaching, because he heard “thunder beings” 
calling to him “to make haste.” It reminded 
him of the thundering noise made by the ap- 
proaching horses in his vision. An old medicine 
man explained to him that his fear came from 
the fact that he was keeping his vision to him- 
self, and said that he must tell it to his tribe. 
He did so, and later he and his people acted 
out the vision in a ritual, using real horses. 
Not merely Black Elk himself, but many other 
members of his tribe felt infinitely better after 
this play. Some were even cured of their dis- 
eases. Black Elk said: “Even the horses seemed 
to be healthier and happier after the dance.” 

The ritual was not repeated because the tribe 
was destroyed soon afterward. But here is a 
different case in which a ritual still survives. 
Several Eskimo tribes living near the Colville 
River in Alaska explain the origin of their eagle 
festival in the following way: 

A young hunter shot dead a very unusual eagle 
and was so impressed by the beauty of the dead 
bird that he stuffed and made a fetish of him, 
honoring him by sacrifices. One day, when the 
hunter had traveled far inland during his hunt- 
ing, two animal-men suddenly appeared in the 
role of messengers and led him to the land of the 
eagles. There he heard a dark drumming noise, 

<2 -8 

and the messengers explained that this was the 
heartbeat of the dead eagle’s mother. Then the 
eagle spirit appeared to the hunter as a woman 
clothed in black. She asked him to initiate an 
eagle festival among his people to honor her dead 
son. After the eagle people had shown him how 
to do this, he suddenly found himself, exhausted, 
back in the place where he had met the messen- 
gers. Returning home, he taught his people how 
to perform the great eagle festival ~ as they have 
done faithfully ever since. 

From such examples we see how a ritual or 
religious custom can spring directly from an 
unconscious revelation experienced by a single 
individual. Out of such beginnings, people liv- 
ing in cultural groups develop their various re- 
ligious activities with their enormous influence 
on the entire life of the society. During a long 
process of evolution the original material is 
shaped and reshaped by words and actions, is 
beautified, and acquires increasingly definite 
forms. This crystallizing process, however, has 
a great disadvantage. More and more people 
have no personal knowledge of the original ex- 
perience and can only believe what their elders 
and teachers tell them about it. They no longer 
know that such happenings are real, and they 
are of course ignorant about how one feels dur- 
ing the experience. 

In their present forms, worked over and ex- 
ceedingly aged, such religious traditions often 
resist further creative alterations by the uncon- 
scious. Theologians sometimes even defend 
these “true” religious symbols and symbolic 
doctrines against the discovery of a religious 
function in the unconscious psyche, forgetting 
that the values they fight for owe their exist- 
ence to that very same function. Without a 
human psyche to receive divine inspirations 
and utter them in words or shape them in art, 
no religious symbol has ever come into the 
reality of our human life. (We need only think 
of the prophets and the evangelists.) 

If someone objects that there is a religious 
reality in itself, independent of the human 
psyche, I can only answer such a person with 
this question: “Who says this, if not a human 
psyche?” No matter what we assert, we can 

never get away from the existence of the psyche 
— for we are contained within it, and it is the 
only means by which we can grasp reality. 

Thus the modern discovery of the uncon- 
scious shuts one door forever. It definitely ex- 
cludes the illusory idea, so favored by some 
individuals, that a man can know spiritual 
reality in itself. In modern physics, too, a door 
has been closed by Heisenberg’s ‘'principle of 
indeterminacy,” shutting out the delusion that 
we can comprehend an absolute physical re- 
ality. The discovery of the unconscious, how- 
ever, compensates for the loss of these beloved 
illusions by opening before us an immense and 
unexplored new field of realizations, within 
which objective scientific investigation com- 
bines in a strange new way with personal 
ethical adventure. 

But, as I said at the outset, it is practically 
impossible to impart the whole reality of one’s 
experience in the new field. Much is unique 
and can be only partially communicated by 
language. Here, too, a door is shut against the 

illusion that one can completely understand 
another person and tell him what is right for 
him. Once again, however, one can find a com- 
pensation for this in the new realm of experi- 
ence by the discovery of the social function of 
the Self, which works in a hidden way to 
unite separate individuals who belong together. 

Intellectual chit-chat is thus replaced by 
meaningful events that occur in the reality of 
the psyche. Hence, for the individual to enter 
seriously into the process of individuation in the 
way that has been outlined means a completely 
new and different orientation toward life. For 
scientists it also means a new and different 
scientific approach to outer facts. How this will 
work out in the field of human knowledge and 
in the social life of human beings cannot be 
predicted. But to me it seems certain that 
Jung’s discovery of the process of individuation 
is a fact that future generations will have to 
take into account if they want to avoid drifting 
into a stagnant or even regressive outlook. 

This painting (by Erhard Jacoby) 
illustrates the fact that each of 
us, perceiving the world through 
an individual psyche, perceives it 
in a slightly different way from 
others. The man, woman, and child 
are looking at the same scene; but, 
for each, different details become 
clear or obscured. Only by means of 
our conscious perception does the 
world exist "outside": We are 
surrounded by something completely 
unknown and unknowable (here 
represented by the painting's 
gray background). 


4 Symbolism in the visual arts 

Aniela Jaffe 

Variation within a Sphere no. 10: The Sun, by Richard Lippold 

Symbolism in the visual arts 

Sacred symbols — the stone and the animal 

The history of symbolism shows that everything 
can assume symbolic significance: natural 
objects (like stones, plants, animals, men, moun- 
tains and valleys, sun and moon, wind, water, 
and fire), or man-made things (like houses, 
boats, or cars) , or even abstract forms (like num- 
bers, or the triangle, the square, and the circle). 
In fact, the whole cosmos is a potential symbol. 

Man, with his symbol-making propensity, 
unconsciously transforms objects or forms into 
symbols (thereby endowing them with great psy- 
chological importance) and expresses them in 
both his religion and his visual art. The inter- 
twined history of religion and art, reaching back 
to prehistoric times, is the record that our ances- 
tors have left of the symbols that were mean- 
ingful and moving to them. Even today, as 
modern painting and sculpture show, the inter- 
play of religion and art is still alive. 

For the first part of my discussion of sym- 
bolism in the visual arts, I intend to examine 
some of the specific motifs that have been uni- 
versally sacred or mysterious to man. Then, for 
the remainder of the chapter, I wish to discuss 
the phenomenon of 20th-century art, not in 
terms of its use of symbols, but in terms of its 
significance as a symbol itself — a symbolic 
expression of the psychological condition of the 
modern world. 

In the following pages, I have chosen three 
recurring motifs with which to illustrate the 
presence and nature of symbolism in the art of 
many different periods. These are the symbols 
of the stone, the animal, and the circle — each 
of which has had enduring psychological signi- 
ficance from the earliest expressions of human 
consciousness to the most sophisticated forms of 
20th-century art. 

We know that even unhewn stones had a 
highly symbolic meaning for ancient and primi- 
tive societies. Rough, natural stones were often 
believed to be the dwelling places of spirits or 
gods, and were used in primitive cultures as 


tombstones, boundary stones, or objects of reli- 
gious veneration. Their use may be regarded as 
a primeval form of sculpture — a first attempt to 
invest the stone with more expressive power 
than chance and nature could give it. 

The Old Testament story of Jacob’s dream is 
a typical example of how, thousands of years 
ago, man felt that a living god or a divine spirit 
was embodied in the stone and how the stone 
became a symbol: 

And Jacob . . . went toward Haran. And he 
lighted upon a certain place, and tarried there all 
night, because the sun was set; and he took of 
the stones of the place, and put them for his pil- 
lows and lay down in that place to sleep. And he 
dreamed, and behold a ladder set up on the 
earth, and the top of it reached to heaven, and 
behold the angels of God ascending and descend- 
ing on it. And, behold, the Lord stood above it, 
and said, I am the Lord God of Abraham thy 
father, and the God of Isaac: the land whereon 
thou best, to thee will I give it, and to thy seed. 

And Jacob awaked out of his sleep, and he said, 
Surely the Lord is in this place; and I knew it 
not. And he was afraid, and said, How dreadful 
is this place! this is none other but the house of 
God, and this is the gate of heaven. And Jacob 
rose up early in the morning and took the stone 

that he had put for his pillows, and set it up for a 
pillar, and poured oil upon the top of it. And he 
called the name of that place Beth-el. 

For Jacob, the stone was an integral part of the 
revelation. It was the mediator between himself 
and God. 

In many primitive stone-sanctuaries, the deity 
is represented not by a single stone but by a 
great many unhewn stones, arranged in distinct 
patterns. (The geometrical stone alignments in 
Brittany and the stone circle at Stonehenge are 
famous examples.) Arrangements of rough 
natural stones also play a considerable part in 
the highly civilized rock gardens of Zen 
Buddhism. Their arrangement is not geometri- 
cal but seems to have come about by pure 
chance. In fact, however, it is the expression of 
a most refined spirituality. 

Very early in history, men began trying to 
express what they felt to be the soul or spirit of 
a rock by working it into a recognizable form. 
In many cases, the form was a more or less de- 
finite approximation to the human figure — for 
instance, the ancient menhirs with their crude 
outlines of faces, or the herms that developed 
out of boundary stones in ancient Greece, or the 

Above left, the stone alignments 
at Carnac in Brittany, dating from 
c. 2000 b.c. — crude stones set 
upright in rows that are thought to 
have been used in sacred rituals 
and religious processions. Left, 
rough stones resting on raked sand 
in a Zen Buddhist rock garden (in 
the Ryoanji temple, Japan). Though 
apparently haphazard, the stones' 
arrangement in fact expresses a 
highly refined spirituality. 

Right, a prehistoric menhir — a 
rock that has been slightly carved 
into a female form (probably a 
mother goddess) . Far right, a 
sculpture by Max Ernst (born 
1 891 ) has also hardly altered the 
natural shape of the stone. 

many primitive stone idols with human features. 
The animation of the stone must be explained 
as the projection of a more or less distinct 
content of the unconscious into the stone. 

The primitive tendency to give merely a hint 
of a human figure, and to retain much of the 
stone’s natural form, can also be seen in 
modern sculpture. Many examples show the 
artists’ concern with the “self-expression” of the 
stone; to use the language of myth, the stone is 
allowed to “speak for itself.” This can be seen, 
for instance, in the work of the Swiss sculptor 
Hans Aeschbacher, the American sculptor 
James Rosati, and the German-born artist Max 
Ernst. In a letter from Maloja in 1935, Ernst 
wrote: "Alberto [the Swiss artist Giacometti] 
and I are afflicted with sculpturitis. We work 
on granite boulders, large and small, from the 
moraine of the Forno glacier. Wonderfully pol- 
ished by time, frost, and weather, they are in 
themselves fantastically beautiful. No human 
hand can do that. So why not leave the spade- 
work to the elements, and confine ourselves to 
scratching on them the runes of our own 

What Ernst meant by "mystery” is not ex- 
plained. But later in this chapter I shall try to 
show that the “mysteries” of the modern artist 
are not very different from those of the old 
masters who knew the “spirit of the stone.” 

The emphasis on this “spirit” in much sculp- 
ture is one indication of the shifting, indefinable 

borderline between religion and art. Sometimes 
one cannot be separated from the other. The 
same ambivalence can also be seen in another 
symbolic motif, as it appears in age-old works 
of art: the symbol of the animal. 

Animal pictures go back to the last Ice Age 
(between 60,000 and 10,000 b.c.). They were 
discovered on the walls of caves in France 
and Spain at the end of the last century, but it 
was not until early in the present century that 
archaeologists began to realize their extreme 
importance and to inquire into their meaning. 
These inquiries revealed an infinitely remote 
prehistoric culture whose existence had never 
even been suspected. 

Even today, a strange music seems to haunt 
the caves that contain the rock engravings and 
paintings. According to the German art his- 
torian Herbert Kuhn, inhabitants of the 
areas in Africa, Spain, France, and Scandinavia 
where such paintings are found could not be 
induced to go near the caves. A kind of religious 
awe, or perhaps a fear of spirits hovering among 
the rocks and the paintings, held them back. 
Passing nomads still lay their votive offerings 
before the old rock paintings in North Africa. 
In the 15th century. Pope Calixtus 1 1 prohibited 
religious ceremonies in the “cave with the horse- 
pictures.” Which cave the pope meant is not 
known, but there can be no doubt that it was a 
cave of the Ice Age containing animal pictures. 
All this goes to prove that the caves and rocks 


Far left, animal paintings on cave 
walls at Lascaux. The paintings 
were not simply decorative; they 
had a magical function. Left, a 
drawing of a bison covered with 
arrow and spear marks: The cave 
dwellers believed that by ritually 
"killing" the image, they would be 
more likely to kill the animal. 

Even today the destruction of an 
effigy or statue is a symbolic 
killing of the person depicted. 

Right, a statue of Stalin destroyed 
by Hungarian rebels in 1 956; far 
right, rebels hang a bust of the former 
Stalinist Hungarian premier 
Matyas Rakosi. 

with the animal paintings have always been 
instinctively felt to be what they originally 
were — religious places. The numen of the place 
has outlived the centuries. 

In a number of caves the modern visitor must 
travel through low, dark, and damp passages 
till he reaches the point where the great painted 
“chambers 7 ’ suddenly open out. This arduous 
approach may express the desire of the primi- 
tive men to safeguard from common sight all 
that was contained and went on in the caves, 
and to protect their mystery. The sudden and 
unexpected sight of the paintings in the cham- 
bers, coming after the difficult and awe-inspir- 
ing approach, must have made an overwhelm- 
ing impression on primitive man. 

The paleolithic cave paintings consist almost 
entirely of figures of animals, whose movements 
and postures have been observed in nature and 
rendered with great artistic skill. There are, 
however, many details that show that the fig- 
ures were intended to be something more than 
naturalistic reproductions. Kuhn writes: “The 
strange thing is that a good many primitive 
paintings have been used as targets. At Monte- 
span there is an engraving of a horse that is 
being driven into a trap; it is pitted with the 
marks of missiles. A clay model of a bear in the 
same cave has 42 holes.” 

These pictures suggest a hunting-magic like 
that still practiced today by hunting tribes in 
Africa. The painted animal has the function of 

a “double”; by its symbolic slaughter, the 
hunters attempt to anticipate and ensure the 
death of the real animal. This is a form of sym- 
pathetic magic, which is based on the “reality 7 ' 
of a double represented in a picture: What 
happens to the picture will happen to the 
original. The underlying psychological fact is 
a strong identification between a living being 
and its image, which is considered to be the 
being’s soul. (This is one reason why a great 
many primitive people today will shrink from 
being photographed.) 

Other cave pictures must have served magic 
fertility rites. They show animals at the 
moment of mating; an example can be seen in 
the figures of a male and female bison in the 
Tuc d'Audubert cave in France. Thus the rea- 
listic picture of the animals was enriched by 
overtones of magic and took on a symbolic sig- 
nificance. It became the image of the living 
essence of the animal. 

The most interesting figures in the cave 
paintings are those of semihuman beings in 
animal disguise, which are sometimes to be 
found besides the animals. In the Trois Freres 
cave in France, a man wrapped in an animal 
hide is playing a primitive flute as if he meant 
to put a spell on the animals. In the same cave, 
there is a dancing human being, with antlers, a 
horse’s head, and bear’s paws. This figure, dom- 
inating a medley of several hundred animals, is 
unquestionably the “Lord of the Animals.” 


The customs and usages of some primitive 
African tribes today can throw some light on 
the meaning of these mysterious and doubtless 
symbolic figures. In initiations, secret societies, 
and even the institution of monarchy in these 
tribes, animals and animal disguises often play 
an important part. The king and chief are ani- 
mals too — generally lions or leopards. Vestiges 
of this custom may be discerned in the title of 
the last emperor of Ethiopia, Haile Selassie 
(Lion of Judah), or the honorific name of Dr. 
Hastings Banda (The Lion of Malawi). 

The further back we go in time, or the more 
primitive and close to nature the society is, the 
more literally such titles must be taken. A pri- 
mitive chief is not only disguised as the animal ; 
when he appears at initiation rites in full animal 
disguise, he is the animal. Still more, he is an 
animal spirit, a terrifying demon who per- 
forms circumcision. At such moments he incor- 
porates or represents the ancestor of the tribe 
and the clan, and therefore the primal god 
himself. He represents, and is, the “totem" 
animal. Thus we probably should not go far 
wrong in seeing in the figure of the dancing 
animal-man in the Trois Freres cave a kind of 
chief who has been transformed by his disguise 
into an animal demon. 

In the course of time, the complete animal 
disguise was superseded in many places by ani- 
mal and demon masks. Primitive men lavished 

all their artistic skill on these masks, and many 
of them are still unsurpassed in the power and 
intensity of their expression. They are often the 
objects of the same veneration as the god or 
demon himself. Animal masks play a part in the 
folk artsofmanv modern countries, like Switzer- 
land, or in the magnificently expressive masks 
of the ancient Japanese No drama, which is 
still performed in modern Japan. The symbolic 
function of the mask is the same as that of the 
original animal disguise. Individual human ex- 
pression is submerged, but in its place the 
wearer assumes the dignity and the beauty (and 
also the horrifying expression) of an animal 
demon. In psychological terms, the mask trans- 
forms its wearer into an archetypal image. 

Dancing, which was originally nothing more 
than a completion of the animal disguise by 
appropriate movements and gestures, was prob- 
ably supplementary to the initiation or other 
rites. It was, so to speak, performed by demons 
in honor of a demon. In the soft clay of the Tuc 
d'Audubert cave, Herbert Kuhn found foot- 
prints that led around animal figures. They show 
that dancing was part of even the Ice Age rites. 
“Only heel prints can be seen," Kuhn writes. 
“The dancers had moved like bisons. They had 
danced a bison dance for the fertility and in- 
crease of the animals and for their slaughter.” 

In his introductory chapter, Dr. Jung has 
pointed out the close relation, or even identifi- 

Far left, a prehistoric painting from 
Trois Freres cave includes (lower 
right corner) a human figure, perhaps 
a shaman, with horns and hoofs. 

As examples of "animal'' dances: 
left, a Burmese buffalo dance in 
which masked dancers are possessed 
by the buffalo spirit; right, a 
Bolivian devil dance in which the 
dancers wear demonic animal masks; 
far right, an old southwest German 
folk dance in which the dancers 
are disguised as witches and 
as animal -like "wild men." 


cation, between the native and his totem animal 
(or “bush-soul”). There are special ceremonies 
for the establishment of this relationship, especi- 
ally the initiation rites for boys. The boy enters 
into possession of his “animal soul,” and at the 
same time sacrifices his own “animal being” by 
circumcision. This dual process admits him to 
the totem clan and establishes his relationship 
to his totem animal. Above all, he becomes a 
man, and (in a still wider sense) a human being. 

East Coast Africans described the uncircum- 
cised as “animals.” They had neither received 
an animal soul nor sacrificed their “animality.” 
In other words, since neither the human nor the 
animal aspect of an uncircumcised boy's soul 
had become conscious, his animal aspect was 
regarded as dominant. 

The animal motif is usually symbolic of 
man's primitive and instinctual nature. Even 
civilized men must realize the violence of their 
instinctual drives and their powerlessness in face 
of the autonomous emotions erupting from the 
unconscious. This is still more the case with 
primitive men, whose consciousness is not highly 
developed and who are still less well equipped 
to weather the emotional storm. In the first 
chapter of this book, when Dr. Jung is discus- 
sing the ways in which man developed the 
power of reflection, he takes an example of an 
African who fell into a rage and killed his 
beloved little son. When the man recovered 

himself, he was overwhelmed with grief and re- 
morse for what he had done. In this case a 
negative impulse broke loose and did its deadly 
work regardless of the conscious will. The ani- 
mal demon is a highly expressive symbol for 
such an impulse. The vividness and concrete- 
ness of the image enables man to establish a 
relationship with it as a representative of the 
overwhelming power in himself. He fears it and 
seeks to propitiate it by sacrifice and ritual. 

A large number of myths are concerned with 
a primal animal, which must be sacrificed in 
the cause of fertility or even creation. One ex- 
ample of this is the sacrifice of a bull by the 
Persian sun-god Mithras, from which sprang the 
earth with all wealth and fruitfulness. In the 
Christian legend of St. George slaying the 
dragon, the primeval rite of sacrificial slaughter 
again appears. 

In the religions and religious art of practi- 
cally every race, animal attributes are ascribed 
to the supreme gods, or the gods are repre- 
sented as animals. The ancient Babylonians 
translated their gods into the heavens in the 
shape of the Ram, the Bull, the Crab, the Lion, 
the Scorpion, the Fish, and so on — the signs of 
the Zodiac. The Egyptians represented the god- 
dess Hathor as cow-headed, the god Amon as 
ram-headed, and Thoth as ibis-headed or in the 
shape of a baboon. Ganesha, the Hindu god of 
good fortune, has a human body but the head 


of an elephant, Vishnu is a boar, Hanuman is an 
ape-god, etc. (The Hindus, incidentally, do not 
assign the first place in the hierarchy of being 
to man: The elephant and lion stand higher.) 

Greek mythology is full of animal sym- 
bolism. Zeus, the father of the gods, often 
approaches a girl whom he desires in the shape 
of a swan, a bull, or an eagle. In Germanic 
mythology, the cat is sacred to the goddess 
Freya, while the boar, the raven, and the horse 
are sacred to Wotan. 

Even in Christianity, animal symbolism plays 
a surprisingly great part. Three of the Evange- 
lists have animal emblems: St. Luke has the 
ox, St. Mark the lion, and St. John the eagle. 
Only one, St. Matthew, is represented as a man 
or as an angel. Christ himself symbolically 
appears as the Lamb of God or the Fish, but he 
is also the serpent exalted on the cross, the lion, 
and in rarer cases the unicorn. These animal 
attributes of Christ indicate that even the Son 
of God (the supreme personification of man) 
can no more dispense with his animal nature 
than with his higher, spiritual nature. The sub- 
human as well as the superhuman is felt to be- 
long to the realm of the divine; the relationship 
of these two aspects of man is beautifully sym- 
bolized in the Christmas picture of the birth of 
Christ, in a stable among animals. 

The boundless profusion of animal symbolism 
in the religion and art of all times does not 

Left, a mask used in the ancient 
No drama of Japan, in which the 
players often portray gods, spirits, 
or demons. Above right, masked 
performers in Japanese dance theater 
Below right, an actor in Japan's 
Kabuki drama, dressed as a medieval 
hero, with mask- like make-up. 


merely emphasize the importance of the sym- 
bol ; it shows how vital it is for men to integrate 
into their lives the symbol's psychic content — 
instinct. In itself, an animal is neither good nor 
evil; it is a piece of nature. It cannot desire 
anything that is not in its nature. To put this 
another way, it obeys its instincts. These in- 
stincts often seem mysterious to us, but they 
have their parallel in human life: The founda- 
tion of human nature is instinct. 

But in man, the “animal being" (which lives 
in him as his instinctual psyche) may become 
dangerous if it is not recognized and integrated 
in life. Man is the only creature with the power 
to control instinct by his own will, but he is also 
able to suppress, distort, and wound it— and an 
animal, tospeak metaphorically, is never so wild 
and dangerous as when it is wounded. Sup- 
pressed instincts can gain control of a man ; they 
can even destroy him. 

The familiar dream in which the dreamer is 
pursued by an animal nearly always indicates 
that an instinct has been split off from consci- 
ousness and ought to be (or is trying to be) re- 
admitted and integrated into life. The more 
dangerous the behavior of the animal in the. 
dream, the more unconscious is the primitive 
and instinctual soul of the dreamer, and the 
more imperative is its integration into his life if 
some irreparable evil is to be forestalled. 

Suppressed and wounded instincts are the 
dangers threatening civilized man ; uninhibited 
drives are the dangers threatening primitive 
man. In both cases the “animal" is alienated 
from its true nature; and for both, the accept- 
ance of the animal soul is the condition .for 
wholeness and a fully lived life. Primitive man 
must tame the animal in himself and make it 
his helpful companion: civilized man must heal 
the animal in himself and make it his friend. 

Other contributors to this book have d isc ussed 
the importance of the stone and animal motifs 
in terms of dream and myth; I have used them 
here only as general examples of the appearance 
of such living symbols throughout the history 
of art (and especially religious art). Let us now 
examine in the same way a most powerful and 
universal symbol: the circle. 

Examples of animal symbols of 
divinities from three religions: 

Top of page, the Hindu god Ganesha 
(a painted sculpture from the 
Royal Palace of Nepal), god of 
prudence and wisdom; above, the 
Greek god Zeus in the form of a 
swan (with Leda); right, on opposite 
sides of a medieval coin, the 
crucified Christ shown as a man 
and as a serpent 


The symbol of the circle 

Dr. M.-L. von Franz has explained the circle 
for sphere) as a symbol of the Self. It expresses 
the totality of the psyche in all its aspects, in- 
cluding the relationship between man and the 
whole of nature. Whether the symbol of the 
circle appears in primitive sun worship or 
modern religion, in myths or dreams, in the 
mandalas drawn by Tibetan monks, in the 
ground plans of cities, or in the spherical con- 
cepts of early astronomers, it always points to 
the single most vital aspect of life its ultimate 

An Indian creation myth relates that the 
god Brahma, standing on a huge, thousand- 
petaled lotus, turned his eyes to the four points 
of the compass. This fourfold survey from the 
circle of the lotus was a kind of preliminary 
orientation, an indispensable taking of bearings, 
before he began his work of creation. 

A similar story is told of Buddha. At the 
moment of his birth, a lotus flower rose from the 
earth and he stepped into it to gaze into the 10 
directions of space. (The lotus in this case was 
eight-raved; and Buddha also gazed upward 
and downward, making 10 directions.) This 
symbolic gesture of survey was the most concise 
method of showing that from the moment of 
his birth, the Buddha was a unique personality, 
predestined to receive illumination. His person- 
ality and his further existence were given the 
imprint of wholeness. 

The spatial orientation performed by Brahma 
and Buddha may be regarded as symbolic of the 
human need for psychic orientation. File four 
functions of consciousness described by Dr. Jung 
in his chapter, p. 61 — thought, feeling, intui- 
tion, and sensation equip man to deal with 
the impressions of the world he receives from 
within and without. It is by means of these 
functions that he comprehends and assimilates 
his experience; it is by means of them that he 
can respond. Brahma's four-fold survey of the 
universe symbolizes the necessary integration of 

these four functions that man must achieve. (In 
art, the circle is often eight-rayed. This expresses 
a reciprocal overlapping of the four functions of 
consciousness, so that four further intermediate 
functions come about --for instance, thought 
colored by feeling or intuition, or feeling tend- 
ing toward sensation.) 

In the visual art of India and the Far East, 
the four- or eight-rayed circle is the usual pat- 
tern of the religious images that serve as instru- 
ments of meditation. In Tibetan Lamaism 
especially, richly figured mandalas play an 
important part. As a rule, these mandalas repre- 
sent the cosmos in its relation to divine powers. 

But a great many of the eastern meditation 
figures are purely geometrical in design; these 
are called yantras. Aside from the circle, a very 
common yantra motif is formed by two inter- 
penetrating triangles, one point-upward, the 
other point-downward. Traditionally, thisshape 
symbolizes the union of Shiva and Shakti, the 
male and female divinities, a subject that also 
appears in sculpture in countless variations. In 
terms of psychological symbolism, it expresses 
the union of opposites -the union of the per- 
sonal, temporal world of the ego with the 
non-personal, timeless world of the non-ego. 
Ultimately, this union is the fulfillment and goal 
of all religions: It is the union of the soul with 
God. The two interpenetrating triangles have a 
symbolic meaning similar to that of the more 

Right, a yantra (a form of mandala), 
composed of nine linked triangles. 
The mandala, symbolizing wholeness 
is often connected with exceptional 
beings of myth or legend. Far right, 
a Tibetan painting of the birth of 
Buddha; in the lower left corner, 
Buddha takes his first stepson a 
cross formed of circular blossoms 
Above right, the birth of Alexander 
the Great {a 1 6th-century manuscript 
illustration) heralded by comets — 
in circular or mandala form 

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common circular mandala. They represent the 
wholeness of the psyche or Self, of which con- 
sciousness is just as much a part as the 

In both the triangle yantras and the 
sculptural representations of the union of Shiva 
and Shakti, the emphasis lies on a tension be- 
tween the opposites. Hence the marked erotic 
and emotional character of many of them. This 
dynamic quality implies a process - the crea- 
tion, or coming into being, of wholeness— while 
the four- or eight-rayed circle represents whole- 
ness as such, as an existing entity. 

The abstract circle also figures in Zen paint- 
ing. Speaking of a picture entitled The Circle , 
by the famous Zen priest Sangai, another Zen 
master writes: “In the Zen sect, the circle re- 
presents enlightenment. It symbolizes human 

Abstract mandalas also appear in European 
Christian art. Some of the most splendid 
examples are the rose windows of the cathedrals. 
These are representations of the Self of man 
transposed onto the cosmic plane. (A cosmic 
mandala in the shape of a shining white rose 
was rev ealed to Dante in a vision.) We may re- 
gard as mandalas the haloes of Christ and the 
Christian saints in religious paintings. In many 
cases, the halo of Christ is alone divided into 
four, a significant allusion to his sufferings as 
the Son of Man and his death on the Cross, and 
at the same time a symbol of his differentiated 
wholeness. On the walls of early Romanesque 
churches, abstract circular figures can some- 
times be seen; they may go back to pagan 

In non-Christian art, such circles are called 
“sun wheels." They appear in rock engravings 
that date back to the neolithic epoch before the 
wheel was invented. As Jung has pointed out, 
the term “sun wheel" denotes only the external 
aspect of the figure. What really mattered at 
all times was the experience of an archetypal. 

24 1 

Left, an example of the mandala in 
religious architecture: the Angkor 
Wat Buddhist temple in Cambodia, 
a square building with entrances at 
the four corners. Right, the ruins 
of a fortified camp in Denmark (c 
a d 1000), which was laid out in 
a circle - as is the fortress town 
(center right) of Palmanova, Italy 
(built in 1 593), with its star- 
shaped fortifications Far right, 
the streets that meet at L'Etoile, Paris, 
to form a mandala. 

inner image, which Stone Age man rendered in 
his art as faithfully as he depicted hulls, gazelles, 
or wild horses. 

Many pictorial mandalas are to he found in 
Christian art: lor example, the rather rare pic- 
ture of the Virgin in the center of a circular 
tree, which is the God-symhol of the burning 
hush. The most widely current mandalas in 
Christian art are those of Christ surrounded by 
the four Evangelists. These go back to the 
ancient Egyptian representations of the god 
Horus and his lour sons. 

In architecture the mandala also plays an 
important part — but one that often passes 
unnoticed. It forms the ground plan of both 
secular and sacred buildings in nearly all civili- 
zations; it enters into classical, medieval, and 
even modern town planning. A classical example 
appears in Plutarch's account of the foundation 
of Rome. According to Plutarch, Romulus sent 
for builders from Etruria who instructed him by 
sacred usages and written rules about all the 
ceremonies to be observed - in the same way "as 
in the mysteries." First they dug a round pit 
where tlie Comitium, or Court of Assembly, now 
stands, and into this pit they threw symbolic 
offerings of the fruits of the earth. Then each 
man took a small piece of earth of the land from 
which he came, and these were all thrown into 
the pit together. The pit was given the name of 
mundus (which also meant the cosmos). Around 
it Romulus drew the boundary of the city in a 
circle with a plow r drawn by a bull and a cow. 
Wherever a gate was planned, the plowshare 
was taken out and the plow carried over. 

The city founded in this solemn ceremony 
was circular in shape. Yet the old and famous 

description of Rome is urbs quadrata , the 
square city. According to one theory that 
attempts to reconcile this contradiction, the 
word quadrata must be understood to mean 
"quadripartite"; that is, the circular city was 
divided into four parts by two main arteries 
running from north to south and west to east. 
The point of intersection coincided with the 
mundus mentioned by Plutarch. 

According to another theory, the contradic- 
tion can be understood only as a symbol, namely 
as a \ isual representation of the mathematically 
insoluble problem of the squaring of the circle, 
which had greatly preoccupied the Greeks and 
was to play so great a part in alchemy. Strangely 
enough, before describing the circle ceremony 
of the foundation of the city by Romulus, 
Plutarch also speaks of Rome as Roma quad- 
rat a, a square city. For him, Rome was both a 
circle and a square. 

In each theory a true mandala is involved, 
and that links up with Plutarch’s statement that 
the foundation of the city was taught by the 
Etruscans "as in the mysteries,” as a secret rite. 
It was more than a mere outward form. By its 
mandala ground plan, the city, with its inhabi- 
tants, is exalted above the purely secular realm. 
This is further emphasized by the fact that the 
city has a center, the mundus , which established 
the city’s relationship to the "other” realm, the 
abode of the ancestral spirits. (The mundus was 
covered by a great stone, called the "soul stone.” 
On certain days the stone was removed, and 
then, it was said, the spirits of the dead rose 
from the shaft.) 

A number of medieval cities were founded 
on the ground plan of a mandala and were 

- 4 - 

surrounded by an approximately circular wall. 
In such a city, as in Rome, two main arteries 
divided it into “quarters” and led to the four 
gates. The church or cathedral stood at the 
point of intersection of these arteries. The in- 
spiration of the medieval city with its quarters 
was the Heavenly Jerusalem (in the Book of 
Revelation), which had a square ground plan 
and walls with three times four gates. But Jeru- 
salem had no temple at its center, for God’s 
immediate presence was the center of it. (The 
mandala ground plan for a city is by no means 
outmoded. A modern example is the city of 
Washington, D.C.) 

Whether in classical or in primitive founda- 
tions, the mandala ground plan was never 
dictated by considerations of aesthetics or 
economics. It was a transformation of the city 
into an ordered cosmos, a sacred place bound 
by its center to the other world. And this trans- 
formation accorded with the vital feelings and 
needs of religious man. 

Every building, sacred or secular, that has a 
mandala ground plan is the projection of an 
archetypal image from within the human un- 
conscious onto the outer world. The city, the 
fortress, and the temple become symbols of 
psychic wholeness, and in this way exercise a 
specific influence on the human being who 
enters or lives in the place. (It need hardly be 
emphasized that even in architecture the pro- 
jection of the psychic content was a purely un- 
conscious process. “Such things cannot be 
thought up,” Dr. Jung has written, “but must 
grow again from the forgotten depths if they are 
to express the deepest insights of consciousness 
and the loftiest intuitions of the spiri t, thusamal- 
gamating the uniqueness of present-day consci- 
ousness with the age-old past of humanity.” ) 

The central symbol of Christian art is not the 
mandala, but the cross or crucifix. Up to Caro- 
lingian times, the equilateral or Greek cross was 
the usual form, and therefore the mandala was 
indirectly implied. But in the course of time the 

Medieval religious architecture was 
usually based on the shape of the 
cross. Left, a 1 3th -century church 
(in Ethiopia) cut from the rock. 

Renaissance religious art shows a 
reorientation to the earth and the 
body: Right, a plan fora circular 
church or basilica based on the 
body's proportions, drawn by the 
1 5th-century Italian artist and 
architect Francesco di Giorgio. 

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center moved upward until the cross took on 
the Latin form, with the stake and the cross- 
beam, that is customary today. This develop- 
ment is important because it corresponds to the 
inward development of Christianity up to the 
high Middle Ages. In simple terms, it symbo- 
lized the tendency to remove the center of man 
and his faith from the earth and to "elevate" it 
into the spiritual sphere. This tendency sprang 
from the desire to put into action Christ’s say- 
ing: “My kingdom is not of this world.” Earthly 
life, the world, and the body were therefore 
forces that had to be overcome. Medieval man's 
hopes were thus directed to the beyond, for it 
was only from paradise that the promise of 
fulfillment beckoned. 

This endeavor reached its climax in the 
Middle Ages and in medieval mysticism. The 
hopes of the beyond found expression not only 
in the raising of the center of the cross; it can 
also be seen in the increasing height of the 
Gothic cathedrals, which seem to set the laws 
of gravity at defiance. Their cruciform ground 
plan is that of the elongated Latin cross (though 

the baptisteries, with the font in the center, have 
a true mandala ground plan). 

With the dawning of the Renaissance, a revo- 
lutionary change began to occur in man's con- 
ception of the world. The “upward" movement 
(which reached its climax in the late Middle 
Ages) went into reverse; man turned back to 
the earth. He rediscovered the beauties of 
nature and the body, made the first circumnavi- 
gation of the globe, and proved the world to be 
a sphere. The laws of mechanics and causality 
became the foundations of science. The world of 
religious feeling, of the irrational, and of mysti- 
cism, which had played so great a part in medi- 
eval times, was more and more submerged by 
the triumphs of logical thought. 

Similarly, art became more realistic and sen- 
suous. It broke away from the religious subjects 
of' the Middle Ages and embraced the whole 
visible world. It was overwhelmed by the mani- 
foldness of the earth, by its splendor and horror, 
and became what Gothic art had been before 
it : a true symbol of' the spirit of the age. Thus 
it can hardly be regarded as accidental that 

a change also came over ecclesiastical build- 
ing. In contrast to the soaring Gothic cathedrals, 
there were more circular ground plans. The 
circle replaced the Latin cross. 

This change in form, however — and this is 
the important point for the history of symbol- 
ism must be attributed to aesthetic, and not to 
religious, causes. That is the only possible ex- 
planation for the fact that the center of these 
round churches (the truly “holy” place) is 
empty, and that the altar stands in a recess in 
a wall away from the center. For that reason 
the plan cannot be described as a true man- 
dala. An important exception is St. Peter’s in 
Rome, which was built to the plans of Bra- 
mante and Michelangelo. Here the altar stands 
in the center. One is tempted, however, to 
attribute this exception to the genius of the 
architects, for great genius is always both of and 
beyond its time. 

In spite of the far-reaching changes in art, 
philosophy, and science brought about by the 
Renaissance, the central symbol of Christianity 
remained unchanged. Christ was still repre- 

sented on the Latin cross, as he is today. That 
meant that the center of religious man re- 
mained anchored on a higher, more spiritual 
plane than that of earthly man, who had 
turned back to nature. Thus a rift arose be- 
tween man’s traditional Christianity and his 
rational or intellectual mind. Since that time, 
these two sides of modern man have never been 
brought together. In the course of the centuries, 
with man’s growing insight into nature and its 
laws, this division has gradually grown wider; 
and it still splits the psyche of the western 
Christian in the 20th century. 

Of course, the brief historical summary given 
here has been over-simplified. Moreover, it 
omits the secret religious movements within 
Christianity that took account, in their beliefs, 
of what was usually ignored by most Chris- 
tians: the question of evil, the chthonic (or 
earthly) spirit. Such movements were always in 
a minority and seldom had any very visible 
influence, but in their way they fulfilled the 
important role of a contrapuntal accompani- 
ment to Christian spirituality. 

The Renaissance interest in outer 
reality produced the Copernican sun- 
centered universe (left) and turned 
artists away from "imaginative" art 
to nature: Below left, Leonardo's 
study of the human heart. 

Renaissance art — with its sensuous 
concern with light, nature, and the 
body (far left, a Tintoretto, 1 6th 
century) — set a pattern that lasted 
until the Impressionists. Below, a 
painting by Renoir (1841 -1919). 

Far left, the symbolic alchemical 
concept of the squared circle — 
symbol of wholeness and of 
the union of opposites (note the 
male and female figures) - Left, 
a modern squared circle by the 
British artist Ben Nicholson (born 
1 894) : It is a strictly geometrical, 
empty form possessing aesthetic 
harmony and beauty but without 
symbolic meaning. 

Right, a "sun wheel' in a painting 
by the modern Japanese artist Sofu 
Teshigahara (born 1900) follows the 
tendency of many modern painters, 
when using "circular" shapes, to make 
them asymmetrical. 

Among the many sects and movements that 
arose about a.d. 1000, the alchemists played a 
very important part. They exalted the mysteries 
of matter and set them alongside those of the 
“heavenly'’ spirit of Christianity. What they 
sought was a wholeness of man encompassing 
mind and body, and they invented a thousand 
names and symbols for it. One of their central 
symbols was the quadratura circu/i (the squar- 
ing of the circle), which is no more than the 
true mandala. 

The alchemists not only recorded their work 
in their writings; they created a wealth of pic- 
tures of their dreams and visions — symbolic 
pictures that are still as profound as they are 
baffling. They were inspired by the dark side of 
nature — evil, the dream, the spirit of earth. 
The mode of expression was always fabulous, 
dreamlike, and unreal, in both word and pic- 
ture. The great 15th-century Flemish painter 
Hieronymus Bosch may be regarded as the 
most important representative of this kind of 
imaginative art. 

But at the same time, more typical Renais- 
sance painters (working in the full light of day, 
so to speak) were producing the most splendid 
works of sensuous art. Their fascination with 
earth and nature went so deep that it practi- 
cally determined the development of visual art 
for the next five centuries. The last great repre- 
sentatives of sensuous art, the art of the passing 
moment, of light and air, were the 19th-century 

We may here discriminate between two radi- 
cally different modes of artistic representation. 
Many attempts have been made to define their 
characteristics. Recently Herbert Kiihn (whose 
work on the cave-paintings I have already men- 
tioned) has tried to draw a distinction between 
what he calls the “imaginative’ 1 and the “sen- 
sory" style. The “sensory 11 style generally de- 
picts a direct reproduction of nature or of the 
picture-subject. The “imaginative,” on the 
other hand, presents a fantasy or experience of 
the artist in an “unrealistic,” even dreamlike, 
and sometimes “abstract” manner. Kuhn’s two 
conceptions seem so simple and so clear that I 
am glad to make use of them. 

The first beginnings of imaginative art go 
back very far in history. In the Mediterranean 
basin, its efflorescence dates from the third mill- 
ennium b.c. It has only recently been realized 
that these ancient works of art are not the 
results of incompetence or ignorance; they are 
modes of expression of a perfectly definite reli- 
gious and spiritual emotion. And they have a 
special appeal today, for, during the last half- 
century, art has been passing once more 
through a phase that can be described by the 
term “imaginative." 

Today the geometrical, or “abstract," symbol 
of the circle has again come to play a con- 
siderable role in painting. But with few excep- 
tions the traditional mode of representation has 
undergone a characteristic transformation that 
corresponds to thedilemma of modern man's ex- 


istence. The circle is no longer a single mean- 
ingful figure that embraces a whole world and 
dominates the picture. Sometimes the artist has 
taken it out of its dominant position, replacing 
it by a loosely organized group of circles. Some- 
times the plane of the circle is asymmetrical. 

An example of the asymmetrical circular 
plane may be seen in the famous sun disks of' 
the French painter Robert Delaunay. A paint- 
ing by the modern English painter Ceri 
Richards, now in Dr. Jung's collection, contains 
an entirely asymmetrical circular plane, while 
far to the left there appears a very much smaller 
and empty circle. 

In the French painter Henri Matisse's Still 
Life with Vase of Nasturtiums , the focus of' 
vision is a green sphere on a slanting black 
beam, which seems to gather into itself the 
manifold circles of the nasturtium leaves. The 
sphere overlaps a rectangular figure, the top 
left-hand corner of which is folded over. Given 
the artistic perfection of the painting it is easy 
to forget that in the past these two abstract 
figures (the circle and the square] would have 
been united, and would have expressed a world 
of thoughts and feelings. But am one who does 
remember, and raises the question of meaning, 
will find food for thought: The two figures that 
from the beginning of time have formed a whole 
are in this painting torn apart or incoherently 
related. Yet both are there and are touching 
each other. 

In a picture painted by the Russian-born 
artist Wassily Kandinsky there is a loose assem- 
bly of colored balls or circles that seem to be 
drifting like soap bubbles. They, too, are tenu- 
ously connected with a background of one large 
rectangle with two small, almost square rect- 
angles contained in it. I n another picture, which 
he called A Few Circles , a dark cloud (or is it a 

Left. Limits of Understanding by 
Paul Klee (1879-1 940) -one 20th- 
century painting in which the 
symbol of the circle retains a 
dominant position. 

2 47 

swooping bird? ) again bears a loosely arranged 
group of bright balls or circles. 

Circles often appear in unexpected con- 
nections in the mysterious compositions of the 
British artist Paul Nash. In the primeval soli- 
tude of his landscape Event on the Downs , a 
ball lies in the right foreground. Though it is 
apparently a tennis ball, the design on its 
surface forms the Tai-gi-lu , the Chinese sym- 
bol of eternity; thus it opens up a new 
dimension in the loneliness ol the landscape. 
Something similar happens in Nashfs Land- 
scape from a Dream. Balls are rolling out of sight 
in an infinitely wide mirrored landscape, with 
a huge sun visible on the horizon. Another ball 
lies in the foreground, in front of the roughly 
square mirror. 

In his drawing Limits of Understanding , the 
Swiss artist Paul Klee places the simple figure 
of a sphere or a circle above a complex struc- 

Circles appear broken or loosely 
scattered in The Sun and the Moon, 
top, by Robert Delaunay (1885- 
1 941 ); in A Few Circles, left, 
by Kandinsky (1 866-1 944), and in 
Landscape from a Dream, right, 
by Paul Nash (1889-1946) Below, 
Composition by Piet Mondrian 
(1872 -1944) is dominated by squares. 


tmv of ladders and lines. Dr. Jung has pointed 
out that a true symbol appears only when there 
is a need to express what thought cannot think 
or what is only divined or lelt; that is the pur- 
pose of Klee's simple figure at the “limits of 

It is important to note that the square, or 
groups of rectangles and squares, or rectangles 
and rhomboids, have appeared in modern art 
just as often as the circle. The master of har- 
monious (indeed, “musical") compositions w ith 
squares is the Dutch-born artist Piet Mondrian. 
As a rule there is no actual center in any of his 
pictures, yet they form an ordered whole in 
their own strict, almost ascetic fashion. Still 
more common are paintings by other artists 
with irregular quaternary compositions, or 
numerous rectangles combined in more or less 
loose groups. 

The circle is a symbol of the psyche (even 
Plato described the psyche as a sphere). The 
square and often the rectangle) is a symbol 
of carthbound matter, of the body and reality. 
In most modern art, the connection between 
these two primary forms is either nonexistent, 
or loose and. casual. Their separation is 
another symbolic expression of the psychic 
state of 20th-century man: His soul has lost 
its roots and he is threatened bv dissocia- 

tion. Even in the world situation of today 
(as Dr. Jung pointed out in his opening chap- 
ter), this split has become evident: The west- 
ern and eastern halves of the earth are separ- 
ated by an Iron Curtain. 

But the frequency with which the square and 
the circle appear must not be overlooked. There 
seems to be an uninterrupted psychic urge to 
bring into consciousness the basic factors of life 
that they symbolize. Also, in certain abstract 
pictures of our time (which merely represent a 
colored structure or a kind of “primal matter"’), 
these forms occasionally appear as if they were 
germs of new growth. 

The symbol of the circle has played a curious 
part in a very different phenomenon of the life 
of our day, and occasionally still does so. In 
the last years of the Second World War, there 
arose the “visionary rumor" of round flying 
bodies that became known as “flying saucers" 
or UFOs i unidentified flying objects). Jung has 
explained the UFOs as a projection of a psy- 
chic content (of wholeness) that has at all times 
been symbolized by the circle. In other words, 
this “visionary rumor," as can also be seen in 
many dreams of our time, is an attempt by the 
unconscious collective psyche to heal the split in 
our apocalyptic age by means of the symbol 
of the circle. 

Above, an illustration from a 1 6th 
century German broadsheet of some 
strange circular objects seen in 
the sky similar to the "flying 
saucers'" that have been seen in 
recent years. Jung has suggested 
that such visions are projections 
of the archetype of wholeness. 


Modern painting as a symbol 

The terms “modern art” and “modern paint- 
ing" are used in this chapter as the layman uses 
them. What I will be dealing with, to use 
Kuhn's term, is modern imaginative painting. 
Pictures of this kind can be “abstract” (or rather 
“non-figurative”) but they need not always be 
so. There will be no attempt to distinguish 
among such various forms as lauvism, cubism, 
expressionism, futurism, Suprematism, con- 
structivism, orphism, and so on. Any specific 
allusion to one or the other of these groups will 
be quite exceptional. 

And I am not concerned with an aesthetic 
differentiation of modern paintings; nor, above 
all, with artistic evaluations. Modern imagina- 
tive painting is here taken simply as a phenome- 
non of our time. That is the only way in which 
the question of its symbolic content can be justi- 
fied and answered. In this brief chapter it is pos- 
sible to mention only a few artists, and to 
select a few of their works more or less at ran- 
dom. 1 must content myself with discussing 
modern painting in terms of a small number of 
its representatives. 

My starting point is the psychological fact 
that the artist has at all times been the instru- 
ment and spokesman of the spirit of his age. 
His work can be only partly understood in 
terms of his personal psychology. Consciously 
or unconsciously, the artist gives form to the 
nature and values of his time, which in their 
turn form him. 

The modern artist himself often recognizes 
the interrelation of the work of art and its time. 
Thus the French critic and painter Jean Baz- 
aine writes in his Notes on Contemporary 
Painting : “Nobody paints as he likes. All a 
painter can do is to will with all his might the 
painting his age is capable of.” The German 
artist Franz Marc, who died in the First World 
War, said : “The great artists do not seek their 
forms in the mist of the past, but take the deep- 
est soundings they can of the genuine, pro- 

foundest center of gravity of their age.” And, 
as far back as 1911, Kandinsky wrote in his 
famous essay “Concerning the Spiritual in 
Art”: “Every epoch is given its own measure 
of artistic freedom, and even the most creative 
genius may not leap over the boundary of that 

For the last 50 years, “modern art” has been 
a general bone of contention, and the discussion 
has lost none of its heat. The “yeas” are as 
passionate as the “nays”; yet the reiterated 
prophecy that “modern” art is finished has 
never come true. The new way of expression 
has been triumphant to an unimagined degree. 
If it is threatened at all, it will be because it 
has degenerated into mannerism and modish- 
ness. (In the Soviet Union, where non-figura- 
tive art has often been officially discouraged 
and produced only in private, figurative art is 
threatened by a similar degeneration.) 

The general public, in Europe at any rate, 
is still in the heat of the battle. The violence 
of the discussion shows that feeling runs high 
in both camps. Even those who are hostile to 
modern art cannot avoid being impressed by 
the works they reject; they are irritated or re- 
pelled, but (as the violence of their feelings 
shows) they are moved. As a rule, the negative 
fascination is no less strong than the positive. 
The stream of visitors to exhibitions of modern 
art, wherever and whenever they take place, 
testifies to something more than curiosity. 
Curiosity would be satisfied sooner. And the 
fantastic prices that are paid lor works of 
modern art are a measure of the status con- 
ferred upon them by society. 

Fascination arises when the unconscious has 
been moved. The effect produced by works of 
modern art cannot be explained entirely by 
their visible form. To the eye trained in “clas- 
sic” or “sensory" art,' they are new and alien. 
Nothing in works of non-figurative art reminds 
the spectator of his own world no objects in 

their own everyday surroundings, no human 
being or animal that speaks a familiar lan- 
guage. There is no welcome, no visible accord 
in the cosmos created by the artist. And yet, 
without any question, there is a human bond. 
It may be even more intense than in works of 
sensory art, which make a direct appeal to feel- 
ing and empathy. 

It is the aim of the modern artist to give 
expression to his inner vision of man, to the 
spiritual background of life and the world. The 
modern work of art has abandoned not only 
the realm of the concrete, “natural," sensuous 
world, but also that of the individual. It has 
become highly collective and therefore (even 
in the abbreviation of the pictorial hieroglyph) 
touches not only the few but the many. What 
remains individual is the manner of represen- 
tation, the style and quality of' the modern 
work of art. It is often difficult for the layman 
to recognize whether the artist's intentions are 
genuine and his expressions spontaneous, 
neither imitated nor aimed at effect. In many 
cases he must accustom himself to new kinds 
of line and color. He must learn them, as he 
would learn a foreign language, before he can 
judge their expressiveness and quality. 

The pioneers of modern art have apparently 
understood how much they were asking of the 
public. Never have artists published so many 
“manifestoes" and explanations of their aims 
as in the 20th century. It is, however, not only 
to others that they are striving to explain and 

justify what they are doing; it is also to them- 
selves. For the most part, these manifestoes are 
artistic confessions of faith — poetic and often 
confused or self-contradictory attempts to give 
clarity to the strange outcome of today's artistic 

What really matters, of course, is (and 
always has been) the direct encounter with the 
work of art. Yet, for the psychologist who is 
concerned with the symbolic content of modern 
art, the study of these writings is most instruc- 
tive. For that reason the artists, wherever pos- 
sible, will be allowed in the following discus- 
sion to speak for themselves. 

The beginnings of modern art appeared in 
the early 1900s. One of the most impressive 
personalities of that initiatory phase was Kan- 
dinsky, whose influence is still clearly traceable 
in the paintings of the second half of the cen- 
tury. Many of his ideas have proved prophetic. 
In his essay “Concerning Form," he writes: 
vw The art of today embodies the spiritual ma- 
tured to the point of revelation. The forms of 
this embodiment may be arranged between two 
poles: (1) great abstraction; (2) great realism. 
These two poles open two paths, which both 
lead to one goal in the end. These two elements 
have always been present in art ; the first was ex- 
pressed in the second. Today it looks as if they 
were about to carry on separate existences. Art 
seems to have put an end to the pleasant com- 
pletion of the abstract by the concrete, and 
vice versa." 

Sensor/ (or representational) art 
versus imaginative (or "unrealistic") 
art: Right, a painting by the 1 9th- 
century British artist William 
Frith, part of a sequence depicting 
a gambler's downfall This is one 
extreme of representational art: 

It has declined into mannerism and 
sentiment Left, an extreme of 
imaginative (and, here, "abstract") 
art by Kasimir Malevich (1878-1935). 

Suprematist Composition. White on White 1 91 8. 
Collection , The Museum of Modern Art. New York 

Left and above, two compositions 
by Kurt Schwitters (1 887-1948). 
His kind of imaginative art uses 
(and transforms) ordinary things — 
in this case, old tickets, paper, 
metal, etc. Below left, pieces of 
wood similarly used by Hans Arp 
(1 887-1 966). Below, in a sculpture 
by Picasso (1 881 -1973), ordinary 
objects— leaves— are part of the 
subject rather than the material. 

To illustrate Kandinsky's point that the two 
elements of art, the abstract and the concrete, 
have parted company: In 1913, the Russian 
painter Kasimir Malevich painted a picture 
that consisted only of a black square on a white 
ground. It was perhaps the first purely “ab- 
stract’' picture ever painted. He wrote of it: 
“In my desperate struggle to liberate art from 
the ballast of the world of objects, I took refuge 
in the form of the square/’ 

A year later, the French painter Marcel 
Duchamp set up an object chosen at random 
(a bottle rack) on a pedestal and exhibited it. 
Jean Bazaine wrote of it: “This bottle rack, 
torn from its utilitarian context and washed 
up on the beach, has been invested with 
the lonely dignity of the derelict. Good for 
nothing, there to be used, ready for anything, 
it is alive. It lives on the fringe of existence its 
own disturbing, absurd life. The disturbing 
object — that is the first step to art.” 

In its weird dignity and abandonment, the 
object was immeasurably exalted and given 
significance that can only be called magical. 
Hence its “disturbing, absurd life.” It became 
an idol and at the same time an object of 
mockery. Its intrinsic reality was annihilated. 

Both Malevich’s square and Duchamp's 
bottle rack were symbolic gestures that had 
nothing to do with art in the strict sense of 
the word. Yet they mark the two extremes 
(“great abstraction” and “great realism”) be- 
tween which the imaginative art of the succeed- 
ing decades may be aligned and understood. 

From the psychological standpoint, the two 
gestures toward the naked object (matter) and 
the naked non -object (spirit) point to a collec- 
tive psychic rif t that created its symbolic expres- 
sion in the years before the catastrophe of the 
First World War. This rift had first appeared 
in the Renaissance, when it became manifest as 
a conflict between knowledge and faith. Mean- 
while, civilization was removing man further 
and further from his instinctual foundation, so 
that a gull opened between nature and mind, 
between the unconscious and consciousness. 
These opposites characterize the psychic situa- 
tion that is seeking expression in modern art. 

The secret soul of things 

As we have seen, the starting point of “the 
concrete” was Duchamp’s famous — or notori- 
ous — bottle rack. The bottle rack was not in- 
tended to be artistic in itself. Duchamp called 
himself an “anti-artist.” But it brought to light 
an element that was to mean a great deal to 
artists for a long time to come. The name they 
gave to it was objet trouve or “ready-made.” 

The Spanish painter Joan Miro, for instance, 
goes to the beach every dawn “to collect things 
washed up by the tide. Things lying there, 
waiting for someone to discover their person- 
ality/’ He keeps his finds in his studio. Now 
and then he assembles some of them and the 
most curious compositions result: “The artist 
is often surprised himself at the shapes of his 
own creation.” 

As far back as 1912, the Spanish-born artist 
Pablo Picasso and the French artist Georges 
Braque made what they called “collages” from 
scraps of rubbish. Max Ernst cut clippings from 
the illustrated papers of the so-called age of big 
business, assembled them as the fancy took him, 
and so transformed the stuffy solidity of the 
bourgeois age into a demonic, dreamlike un- 
reality. The German painter Kurt Schwitters 
worked with the contents of his ash can : He 
used nails, brown paper, ragged scraps of news- 
paper, railway tickets, and remnants of cloth. 
He succeeded in assembling this rubbish with 
such seriousness and freshness that surprising 
effects of strange beauty came about. In 
Schwitters’ obsession with things, however, this 
manner of composition occasionally became 
merely absurd. He made a construction of 
rubbish that he called “a cathedral built for 
things.” Schwitters worked on it for 10 years, 
and three stories of his own house had to be de- 
molished to give him the space he needed. 

Schwitters’ work, and the magical exaltation 
of the object, give the first hint of the place of 
modern art in the history of the human mind, 
and of its symbolic significance. They reveal 

the tradition that was being unconsciously per- 
petuated. It is the tradition of the hermetic 
Christian brotherhoods of the Middle Ages, 
and of the alchemists, who conferred even on 
matter, the stuff of the earth, the dignity of 
their religious contemplation. 

Schwitters’ exaltation of the grossest material 
to the rank of art, to a “cathedral” (in which 
the rubbish would leave no room for a human 
being), faithfully followed the old alchemical 
tenet according to which the sought-for pre- 
cious object is to be found in filth. Kandinsky 
expressed the same ideas when he wrote : 
“Everything that is dead quivers. Not only the 
things of poetry, stars, moon, wood, flowers, 
but even a white trouser button glittering out 
of' a puddle in the street .... Everything has 
a secret soul, which is silent more often than it 

What the artists, like the alchemists, prob- 
ably did not realize was the psychological fact 
that they were projecting part of their psyche 
into matter or inanimate objects. Hence the 
“mysterious animation” that entered into such 
things, and the great value attached even to 
rubbish. They projected their own darkness, 
their earthly shadow, a psychic content that 
they and their time had lost and abandoned. 

Unlike the alchemists, however, men like 
Schwitters were not contained in and protected 
by the Christian order. In one sense, Schwit- 
ters’ work is opposed to it: A kind of mono- 
mania binds him to matter, while Christianity 
seeks to vanquish matter. And yet,' paradoxi- 
cally, it is Schwitters’ monomania that robs the 
material in his creations of its inherent signifi- 
cance as concrete reality. In his pictures, matter 
is transformed into an “abstract” composition. 
Therefore it begins to discard its substantiality, 
and to dissolve. In that very process, these pic- 
tures become a symbolic expression of our time, 
which has seen the concept of the “absolute” 
concreteness of matter undermined by modern 
atomic physics. 

Painters began to think about the “magic 
object” and the “secret soul” of things. The 
Italian painter Carlo Carra wrote: “It is 
common things that reveal those forms of 

simplicity through which we can realize that 
higher, more significant condition of being 
where the whole splendor of art resides.” 
Paul Klee said: “The object expands beyond 
the bounds of its appearance by our knowledge 
that the thing is more than its exterior presents 
to our eyes.” And Jean Bazaine wrote: “An 
object awakens our love just because it seems 
to be the bearer of powers that are greater 
than itself.” 

Sayings of this kind recall the old alchemical 
concept of a “spirit in matter,” believed to be 
the spirit in and behind inanimate objects like 
metal or stone. Psychologically interpreted, this 
spirit is the unconscious. It always manifests 
itself when conscious or rational knowledge has 
reached its limits and mystery sets in, for man 
tends to fill the inexplicable and mysterious 
with the contents of his unconscious. He pro- 
jects them, as it were, into a dark, empty vessel. 

The feeling that the object was “more than 
met the eye,” which was shared by many art- 
ists, found a most remarkable expression in 
the work of the Italian painter Giorgio de 
Chirico. He was a mystic by temperament, and 
a tragic seeker who never found what he 
sought. On his self-portrait (1908) he wrote: 
El quid amabo nisi quod aenigma est (“And 
what am I to love if not the enigma?”). 

Chirico was the founder of the so-called 
pi dura metajisica . “Every object,” he wrote, 
“has two aspects: The common aspect, which 
is the one we generally see and which is seen 
by everyone, and the ghostly and metaphysical 
aspect, which only rare individuals see at 
moments of clairvoyance and metaphysical 
meditation. A work of art must relate some- 
thing that does not appear in its visible form.” 

Chirico’s works reveal this “ghostly aspect” 
of things. They are dreamlike transpositions of 
reality, which arise as visions from the uncon- 
scious. But his “metaphysical abstraction” is 
expressed in a panic-stricken rigidity, and the 
atmosphere of the pictures is one of nightmare 
and of fathomless melancholy. The city squares 
of Italy, the towers and objects, are set in an 
over-acute perspective, as if they were in a 
vacuum, illuminated by a merciless, cold light 

An example of 'surrealist'' art: 
LesSou/iers Rouges , by the French 
painter Rene Magritte (1898-1967) 
Much of the disturbing effect of 
surrealist painting comes from its 
association and juxtaposition of 
unrelated objects often absurd, 
irrational, and dreamlike. 

from an unseen source. Antique heads or 
statues of gods conjure up the classical past. 

In one of the most terrifying of his pictures, 
he has placed beside the marble head of a god- 
dess a pair of red rubber gloves, a "magic 
object" in the modern sense. A green ball on the 
ground acts as a symbol, uniting the crass 
opposites; without it, there would be more than 
a hint of psychic disintegration. This picture was 
clearly not the result of over-sophisticated de- 
liberation ; it must be taken as a dream picture. 

Chirico was deeply influenced by the philo- 
sophies of Nietzsche and Schopenhauer. He 
wrote: "Schopenhauer and Nietzsche were the 
first to teach the deep significance of the sense- 
lessness of life, and to show how this senseless- 
ness could be transformed into art ... . The 
dreadful void they discovered is the very soul- 
less and untroubled beauty of matter." It may 
be doubted whether Chirico succeeded in trans- 
posing the "dreadful void" into "untroubled 
beauty." Some of his pictures are extremely 
disturbing; many are as terrifying as night- 
man’s. But in his effort to find artistic expres- 

sion for the void, he penetrated to the core of 
the existential dilemma of contemporary man. 

Nietzsche, whom Chirico quotes as his auth- 
ority, has given a name to the "dreadful void" 
in his saying "God is dead." Without referring 
to Nietzsche, Kandinsky wrote in On the Spiri- 
tual in Art : "Heaven is empty. God is dead." 
A phrase of this kind may sound abominable. 
But it is not new. The idea of the "death ofGod" 
and its immediate consequence, the "mcta- 
ph ysical void," had troubled the minds of 19th- 
century poets, especially in France and Ger- 
many. It was a long development that, in the 
20th century, reached the stage of open discus- 
sion and found expression in art. The cleavage 
between modern art and Christianity was fin- 
ally accomplished. 

Dr. Jung also came to realize that this 
strange and mysterious phenomenon of the 
death of* God is a psychic fact of our time. In 
1937 he wrote: "I know and here I am ex- 
pressing what countless other people know — 
that the present time is the time of God's dis- 
appearance and death." For years he had ob- 
served the Christian God-image fading in his 
patients' dreams— that is, in the unconscious of 
modern men. The loss of that image is the loss 
of the supreme factor that gives life a meaning. 

It must be pointed out, however, that neither 
Nietzsche's assertion that God is dead, nor 
Chirico's "metaphysical void," nor Jung's de- 
ductions from unconscious images, have any- 
thing final to say about the reality and exist- 
ence of God or of a transcendental being or 
not-being. They are human assertions. In each 
case they are based, as Jung has shown in 
Psychology and Religion , on contents of the 
unconscious psyche that have entered conscious- 
ness in tangible form as images, dreams, ideas, 
or intuitions. 'The origin of these contents, and 
the cause of* such a transformation (from a 
living to a dead God), must remain unknown, 
on the frontier of mystery. 

Chirico never came to a solution of the pro- 
blem presented to him by the unconscious. His 
failure may be seen most clearly in his represen- 
tation of the human figure. Given the present 
religious situation, it is man himself to whom 

Both Giorgio de Chirico (born 1 888) 
and Marc Chagall (born 1 887) have 
sought to look behind the outward 
appearances of things; their work 
seems to have risen from the depths 
of the unconscious. But Chirico's 
vision (below, h\$ Philosopher and 
Poet) was gloomy, melancholy, even 
nightmarish. Chagall's has always 
been rich, warm, and alive. Right, 
one of his great stained -glass 
windows created in 1 962 for a 
Jerusalem synagogue. 

In Chirico's Song of Love (left), 
the marble head of the goddess 
and the rubber glove are crass 
opposites The green ball seems 
to act as a uniting symbol 

Right, Metaphysical Muse by— Carlo 
Carra (1 881 1966). The faceless 
manikin was a frequent theme 
of Chirico saswell. 


should he accorded a new, if impersonal, dig- 
nity and responsibility. (Jung described it as a 
responsibility to consciousness.) But in Chirico’s 
work, man is deprived of his soul; he becomes 
a manichino , a puppet without a face (and 
therefore also without consciousness). 

In the various versions of his (heat Meta- 
physician , a faceless figure is enthroned on a 
pedestal made of rubbish. The figure is a con- 
sciously or unconsciously ironical representation 
of the man who strives to discover the "truth" 
about metaphysics, and at the same time a 
symbol of ultimate loneliness and senselessness. 
Or perhaps the manichini (which also haunt 
the works of other contemporary artists) are a 
premonition of the faceless mass man. 

When he was 40, Chirico, abandoned his pit- 
lura metajisica; he turned back to traditional 
modes, but his work lost depth. Here is certain 
proof that there is no “back to where you came 
from'' for the creative mind whose unconscious 
has been involved in the fundamental dilemma 
of modern existence. 

A counterpart to Chirico might be seen in 
the Russian- born painter Marc Chagall. His 
quest in his work is also a “mysterious and 
lonely poetry" and “the ghostly aspect of things 
that only rare individuals may see." But Cha- 
gall’s rich symbolism is rooted in the piety of 
Eastern Jewish Hassidism and in a warm feel- 
ing for life. He was faced with neither the pro- 
blem of the void nor the death of God. He 
wrote : “Everything may change in our demor- 
alized world except the heart, man's love, and 
his striving to know the divine. Painting, like 
all poetry, has its part in the divine; people 
feel this today just as much as they used to." 

The British author Sir Herbert Read once 
wrote of Chagall that he never quite crossed 
the threshold into the unconscious, but “has 
always kept one foot on the earth that had 
nourished him.” This is exactly the “right” re- 
lation to the unconscious. It is all the more im- 
portant that, as Read emphasizes, “Chagall has 
remained one of the most influential artists of 
our time." 

With the contrast between Chagall and Chi- 
rico, a question arises that is important for the 

understanding of symbolism in modern art : 
How does the relationship between conscious- 
ness and the unconscious take shape in the work 
of modern artists? Or, to put it another way, 
where does man stand? 

One answer may be found in the movement 
called surrealism, of which the French poet 
Andre Breton is regarded as the founder. (Chi- 
rico too may be described as a surrealist.) As a 
student of medicine, Breton had been intro- 
duced to the work of Freud. Thus dreams came 
to play an important part in his ideas. "Can 
dreams not be used to solve the fundamental 
problems of life?” he wrote. “I believe that the 
apparent antagonism between dream and re- 
ality will be resolved in a kind of absolute 
reality — in surreality.” 

Breton grasped the point admirably. What 
he sought was a reconciliation of the opposites, 
consciousness and the unconscious. But the way 
he took to reach his goal could only lead him 
astray. He began to experiment with Freud’s 
method of free association as well as with auto- 
matic writing, in which the words and phrases 
arising from the unconscious are set down with- 
out any conscious control. Breton called it: 
“thought’s dictation, independent of anv aes- 
thetic or moral preoccupation.” 

But that process simply means that the way 
is opened to the stream of unconscious images, 
and the important or even decisive part to be 
played by consciousness is ignored. As Dr. Jung 
has shown in his chapter, it is consciousness 
that holds the key to the values of the uncon- 
scious, and that therefore plays the decisive 
part. Consciousness alone is competent to de- 
termine the meaning of the images and to 
recognize their significance for man here and 
now, in the concrete reality of the present. Only 
in an interplay of consciousness and the uncon- 
scious can the unconscious prove its value, and 
perhaps even show a way to overcome the mel- 
ancholy of the void. If the unconscious, once in 
action, is left to itself, there is a risk that its con- 
tents will become overpowering or will mani- 
fest their negative, destructive side. 

If we look at surrealist pictures (like Salvador 
Dali’s The Burning Giraffe) with this in mind, 

we may feel the wealth of their fantasy and the 
overwhelming power of their unconscious 
imagery, but we realize the horror and the sym- 
bolism of the end of all things that speaks from 
many of them. The unconscious is pure nature, 
and, like nature, pours out its gifts in profusion. 
But left to itself and without the human re- 
sponse from consciousness, it can (again like 
nature) destroy its own gifts and sooner or later 
sweep them into annihilation. 

The question of the role of consciousness in 
modern painting also arises in connection with 
the use of chance as a means of composing 
paintings. In Beyond Painting Max Ernst 
wrote: “The association of a sewing machine 
and an umbrella on a surgical table [he is 
quoting from the poet Lautreamont] is a fami- 
liar example, which has now become classical, 
of the phenomenon discovered by the surreal- 
ists, that the association of two (or more) 
apparently alien elements on a plane alien to 
both is the most potent ignition of poetry.” 

That is probably as difficult for the layman 
to comprehend as the comment Breton made 
to the same effect : “The man who cannot visu- 
alize a horse galloping on a tomato is an idiot.” 

One of the best-known of modern 
"surrealist" painters is Salvador 
Dali (born 1 904). Above, his 
famous painting The Burning 
Giraffe Below, one of Max Ernst's 
frottages (usually rubbings taken 
from scratches on tiles), from 
his Natural History. 

Ernst's Natural History resembles 
the interest taken in the past in 
"accidental" patterns in nature. 
Below, an engraving of an 1 8th- 
century Dutch museum exhibit that 
is also a kind of surrealist "natural 
history" with its inclusion of coral, 
stones, and skeletons. 


(We might recall here the “chance” association 
of a marble head and red rubber gloves in Chi- 
rico's picture.) Of course, many of these asso- 
ciations were intended as jokes and nonsense. 
Bpt most modern artists have been concerned 
with something radically different from jokes. 

Chance plays a significant part in the work of 
the French sculptor Jean (or Hans) Arp. His 
woodcuts of leaves and other forms, throw n to- 
gether at random, were another expression of 
the quest for, as he put it, “a secret, primal 
meaning slumbering beneath the world of ap- 
pearances.” He called them Leaves arranged ac- 
cording to the laws of chance and Squares arranged 
according to the laws of chance. In these com- 
positions it is chance that gives depth to the 
work of art; it points to an unknown but active 
principle of order and meaning that becomes 
manifest in things as their “secret soul." 

It was above all the desire to “make chance 
essential” (in Paul Klee’s words) that underlay 
the surrealists’ efforts to take the grain of wood, 
cloud formations, and so on as a starting point 
for their visionary painting. Max Ernst, lor 
instance, went back to Leonardo da Vinci, who 
wrote an essay on Botticelli's remark that if 

you throw a paint-soaked sponge at a wall, in 
the splashes it makes you will see heads, animals, 
landscapes, and a host of other configurations. 

Ernst has described how a vision pursued 
him in 1925. It forced itself on him as he was 
staring at a tiled floor marked by thousands 
of scratches. “In order to give foundation to my 
powers of meditation and hallucination, I made 
a series of drawings of the tiles by laying sheets 
of paper on them at random and then taking 
graphite rubbings. When I fixed my eyes on the 
result, I was astounded by a suddenly sharpened 
sense of a hallucinatory series of contrasting and 
superposed pictures. I made a collection of the 
first results obtained from these Trottages’ and 
called it Histoire Naturelle 

It is important to note that Ernst placed over 
or behind some of' these fruitages a ring or 
circle, which gives the picture a peculiar atmo- 
sphere and depth. Here the psychologist can 
recognize the unconscious drive to oppose the 
chaotic hazards of the image’s natural language 
by the symbol of a self-contained psychic whole, 
thus establishing equilibrium. The ring or circle 
dominates the picture. Psychic wholeness rules 
nature, itself meaningful and giving meaning. 

Right, Roman coins used in places 
progressively farther away from Rome. 
On the last com (farthest from the 
controlling center) the face has dis- 
integrated. This strangely corresponds 
to the psychic disintegration that 
such drugs as LSD 25 can induce. 
Below, drawings done by an artist 
who took this drug in a test held in 
Germany in 1 951 . The drawings grow 
more abstract as conscious control 
is overcome by the unconscious. 


In Max Ernst's efforts to pursue the secret 
pattern in things, we may detect an affinity 
with the 19th-century Romantics. They spoke 
of nature's “handwriting," which can be seen 
everywhere, on wings, eggshells, in clouds, 
snow, ice crystals, and other “strange conjunc- 
tions of chance" just as much as in dreams or 
visions. They saw everything as the expression 
of one and the same “pictorial language of 
nature." Thus it was a genuinely romantic ges- 
ture when Max Ernst called the pictures pro- 
duced by his experiments “natural history." 
And he was right, for the unconscious (which 
had conjured up the pictures in the chance 
configuration of things) is nature. 

It is with Ernst's Natural History or Arp’s 
compositions of chance that the reflections of 
the psychologist begin. He is faced with the 
question of what meaning a chance arrange- 
ment — wherever and whenever it comes about 
— can have for the man who happens on it. 
With this question, man and consciousness 
come into the matter, and with them the possi- 
bility of meaning. 

The chance-created picture may be beautiful 
or ugly, harmonious or discordant, rich or poor 
in content, well- or ill-painted. These factors 
determine its artistic value, but they cannot 
satisfy the psychologist (often to the distress of 
the artist or of anyone who finds supreme satis- 
faction in the contemplation of form). The psy- 
chologist seeks further and tries to understand 
the “secret code" of chance arrangement — in 
so far as man can decipher it at all. The num- 
ber and form of the objects thrown together at 
random by Arp raise as many questions as any 

detail of Ernst's fantastic jro/tages. For the psy- 
chologist, they are symbols; and therefore they 
can not only be felt but (up to a certain point) 
can also be interpreted. 

The apparent or actual retreat of man from 
many modern works ofart, the lack of reflection, 
and the predominance of the unconscious over 
consciousness offer critics frequent points of 
attack. They speak of pathological art or com- 
pare it with pictures by the insane, for it is 
characteristic of psychosis that consciousness 
and the ego-personality are submerged and 
“drowned" by floods of contents from the un- 
conscious regions of the psyche. 

It is true that the comparison is not so odious 
today as it was even a generation ago. When 
Dr. Jung first pointed out a connection of this 
kind in his essay on Picasso (1932), it provoked 
a storm of indignation. Today, the catalogue ol 
a well-known Zurich art gallery speaks of the 
“almost schizophrenic obsession" of a famous 
artist, and the German writer Rudolf Kassner 
described Georg Trakl as “one of the greatest 
German poets/’ continuing : “There was some- 
thing schizophrenic about him. It can be felt in 
his work ; there is a touch of schizophrenia in it 
too. Yes, Trakl is a great poet." 

It is now realized that a state of schizo- 
phrenia and the artistic vision are not mutually 
exclusive. To my mind, the famous experiments 
with mescalin and similar drugs have contri- 
buted to this change of attitude. These drugs 
create a condition accompanied by intense 
visions of colors and forms — not unlike schizo- 
phrenia. More than one artist of today has 
sought inspiration in such a drug. 

The retreat from reality 

Franz Marc once said : “The art that is coming 
will give formal expression to our scientific con- 
viction/' This was a truly prophetic saying. 
We have traced the influence on artists of 
Freud s psychoanalysis and of the discovery (or 
rediscovery) of the unconscious in the early 
years of the 20th century. Another important 
point is the connection between modern art and 
the results of research in nuclear physics. 

To put it in simple, nonscientific terms, nu- 
clear physics has robbed the basic units of 
matter of their absolute concreteness. It has 
made matter mysterious. Paradoxically, mass 
and energy, wave and particle 1 , have proved to 
be interchangeable. The laws of cause and 
effect have become valid only up to a certain 
point. It does not matter at all that these rela- 
tivities, discontinuities, and paradoxes hold 
good only on the margins of our world only 
for the infinitely small (the atom) and the in- 
finitely great (the cosmos). They have caused 
a revolutionary change in the concept of re- 
ality, for a new, totally different, and irrational 
reality has dawned behind the reality of our 
“natural" world, which is ruled by the laws of 
classical physics. 

Corresponding relativities and paradoxes 
were discovered in the domain of the psyche. 
Here, too, another world dawned on the mar- 
gin of the world of consciousness, governed by 
new and hitherto unknown laws that are 

strangely akin to the laws of nuclear physics. 
The parallelism between nuclear physics and 
the psychology of the collective unconscious 
was often a subject of discussion between Jung 
and Wolfgang Pauli, the Xobel prizewinner in 
ph ysics. The space-time continuum of physics 
and the collective unconscious can be seen, so 
to speak, as the outer and inner aspects of one 
and the same reality behind appearances. (The 
relationship between physics and psychology 
will be discussed by Dr. M.-L. von Franz in 
her concluding essay. ] 

It is characteristic of this one world behind 
the worlds of physics and the psyche that its 
laws, processes, and contents are unimaginable. 
That is a fact of outstanding importance for 
the understanding of the art of our time. For 
the main subject of modern art is, in a certain 
sense, unimaginable too. Therefore much mod- 
ern art has become “abstract/' The great artists 
of this century have sought to give visible form 
to the “life behind things" and so their works 
are a symbolic expression of a world behind 

The paintings on these pages, all 
by Franz Marc (1 880-1 91 6), show 
his gradual development away from 
a concern with outward things, toward 
a more completely 'abstract" art, 

Far left, Blue Horses (1 91 1 ); 
center, Roes in a Wood (1 91 3-1 4); 
below, Play of Forms (1 91 4), 

Painting No. 1, 1926 Collection. The Museum of 
Modern Art, New York 

Left, Piet Mondrian's Painting 
No 7— an example of the modern 
approach to "pure form" (Mondrian's 
term) through the use of wholly 
abstract, geometrical shapes. 

The art of Paul Klee is a visual 
exploration and expression of the 
spirit in and behind nature — the 
unconscious or. as he termed it, the 
‘‘secretly perceived ' Sometimes 
his vision can be disturbing and 
demonic, as in his Death and Fire, 
right; or it can be a more poetic 
kind of fantasy, as in his Sinbad 
the Saiior (far right). 

consciousness (or, indeed, behind dreams, for 
dreams are only rarely non-figurative). Thus 
they point to the “one’' reality, the “one” life, 
which seems to be the common background of 
the two domains of physical and psychic 

Only a few artists realized the connection be- 
tween their form of expression and physics and 
psychology. Kandinsky is one of the masters who 
expressed the deep emotion he felt at the early 
discoveries of modern physical research. "In 
my mind, the collapse of the atom was the 
collapse of the whole world : Suddenly the 
stoutest walls fell. Everything turned unstable, 
insecure, and soft. I would not have been sur- 
prised if a stone had melted into thin air before 
my eyes. Science seemed to have been annihi- 
lated.” What resulted from this disillusion was 
the artist’s withdrawal from the “realm of 
nature,” from the “populous foreground of 
things.” “It seemed,” Kandinsky added, “as if 
I saw art steadily disengaging itself from 

This separation from the world of things 
happened more or less at the same time to 
other artists, too. Franz Marc wrote: “Have 
we not learned from a thousand years of ex- 
perience that things cease to speak the more 
we hold up to them the visual mirror of their 
appearance? Appearance is eternally flat 
For Marc, the goal of art was “to reveal un- 
earthly life dwelling behind everything, to 
break the mirror of life so that we may look 
being in the face.” Paul Klee wrote: “The 
artist does not ascribe to the natural form of 

appearance the same convincing significance as 
the realists who are his critics. He does not feel 
so intimately bound to that reality, because he 
cannot see in the formal products of nature the 
essence of the creative process. He is more con- 
cerned with formative powers than with formal 
products." Piet Mondrian accused cubism of 
not having pursued abstraction to its logical 
end, "the expression of pure reality.” That can 
only be attained by the “creation of pure form,” 
unconditioned by subjective feelings and ideas. 
"Behind changing natural forms there lies 
changeless pure reality.” 

A great number of artists were seeking to 
get past appearances into the “reality” of the 
background or the “spirit in matter” by a trans- 
mutation of things— through fantasy, surreal- 
ism, dream pictures, the use of chance, etc. The 
"abstract" artists, however, turned their backs 
on things. Their paintings contained no identi- 
fiable concrete objects; they were, in Mon- 
drian's words, simply “pure form.” 

But it must be realized that what these artists 
were concerned with was something far greater 
than a problem of form and the distinction 
between "concrete” and “abstract,” figurative 
and non-figurative. Their goal was the center 
of life and things, their changeless background, 
and an inward certitude. Art had become 

The spirit in whose mystery art was sub- 
merged was an earthly spirit, which the medi- 
eval alchemists had called Mercurius. He is a 
symbol of the spirit that these artists divined or 
sought behind nature and things, “behind the 

appearance of nature.” Their mysticism was 
alien to Christianity, for that “Mercurial” 
spirit is alien to a “heavenly” spirit. Indeed, it 
was Christianity’s dark adversary that was forg- 
ing its way in art. Here we begin to see the 
real historical and symbolic significance of 
“modern art.” Like the hermetic movements in 
the Middle Ages, it must be understood as a 
mysticism of the spirit of earth, and therefore as 
an expression of our time compensatory to 

No artist sensed this mystic background of 
art more clearly or spoke of it with greater 
passion than Kandinsky. The importance of the 
great works of art of all time did not lie, in his 
eyes, “on the surface, in externals, but in the 
root of all roots — in the mystical content of 
art.” Therefore he says: “The artist’s eye 
should always be turned in upon his inner life, 
and his ear should be always alert for the voice 
of inward necessity. This is the only way of 
giving expression to what the mystic vision 

Kandinsky called his pictures a spiritual ex- 
pression of the cosmos, a music of the spheres, 
a harmony of colors and forms. “Form, even 
if it is quite abstract and geometrical, has an 
inward clang; it is a spiritual being with effects 
that coincide absolutely with that form.” “The 
impact of the acute angle of a triangle on a 
circle is actually as overwhelming in effect as 
the finger of God touching the finger of Adam 
in Michelangelo.” 

In 1914, Franz Marc wrote in his Aphor- 
isms: “Matter is a thing that man can at best 

tolerate ; he refuses to recognize it. The contem- 
plation of the world has become the penetration 
of the world. There is no mystic who, in his 
moments of sublimest rapture, ever attained 
the perfect abstraction of modern thought, or 
took his soundings with a deeper plummet.'’ 

Paul Klee, who may be regarded as the poet 
among modern painters, says: “It is the artist’s 
mission to penetrate as far as may be toward 
that secret ground where primal law feeds 
growth. Which artist would not wish to dwell 
at the central organ of all motion in space-time 
(be it the brain or the heart of creation) from 
which all functions derive their life? In the 
womb of nature, in the primal ground of crea- 
tion, where the secret key to all things lies 
hidden? . . . Our beating heart drives us down- 
ward, far down to the primal ground.” What is 
encountered on this journey “must be taken 
most seriously when it is perfectly fused -with 
the appropriate artistic means in visible form,” 
because, as Klee adds, it is not a question of 
merely reproducing what is seen; “the secretly 
perceived is made visible.” Klee’s work is rooted 
in that primal ground. “My hand is entirely the 
instrument of a more distant sphere. Nor is it 
my head that functions in my work; it is some- 
thing else . . . In his work the spirit of’na- 
ture and the spirit of the unconscious became 
inseparable. They have drawn him and draw 
us, the onlookers, into their magic circle. 

Klee’s work is the most complex expression 
— now poetic, now demonic— of the chthonic 
spirit. Humor and bizarre ideas build a bridge 
from the realm of the dark underworld to the 


human world; the bond between his fantasy 
and the earth is the careful observation of the 
laws of' nature and the love for all creatures. 
“For the artist," he once wrote, “the dialogue 
with nature is the conditio sine qua non of his 

A different expression of the hidden uncon- 
scious spirit can be found in one of' the most 
notable of the younger “abstract" painters, 
Jackson Pollock, an American who was killed 
in a car accident when he was 44. His work 
has had a great influence on the younger artists 
of our time. In My Painting , he revealed that 
he painted in a kind of trance: “When I am 
in my painting I am not aware of what I am 
doing. It is only after a sort of ‘get acquainted' 
period that I see what I have been about. I 
have no fears about making changes, destroy- 
ing the image, etc., because the painting has a 
life of its own. I try to let it come through. It 
is only when I lose contact with the painting 
that the result is a mess. Otherwise there is 
pure harmony, an easy give and take, and the 
painting comes out well." 

Pollock's pictures, which were painted prac- 
tically unconsciously, are charged with bound- 
less emotional vehemence. In their lack of 
structure they are almost chaotic, a glowing 
lava stream of colors, lines, planes, and points. 
They may be regarded as a parallel to what the 
alchemists called the massa confusa , the prinia 

materia , or chaos— all ways of' defining the 
precious prime matter of the alchemical pro- 
cess, the starting point of the quest for the 
essence of being. Pollock's pictures represent 
the nothing that is everything- that is, the un- 
conscious itself. They seem to live in a time 
before the emergence of consciousness and be- 
ing, or to be fantastic landscapes of a time 
after the extinction of consciousness and being. 

In the middle of our century, the purely ab- 
stract picture without any regular order of 
forms and colors has become the most frequent 
expression in painting. The deeper the dissolu- 
tion of “reality," the more the picture loses its 
symbolic content. The reason for this lies in the 
nature of the symbol and its function. The sym- 
bol is an object of the known world hinting at 
something unknown; it is the known expressing 
the life and sense of the inexpressible. But in 
merely abstract paintings, the world of Un- 
known has completely vanished. Nothing is left 
to form a bridge to the unknown. 

On the other hand, these paintings reveal an 
unexpected background, a hidden sense. They 
often turn out to be more or less exact images 
of' nature itself, showing an astounding simi- 
larity with the molecular structure of organic 
and inorganic elements of nature. This is a per- 
plexing fact. Pure abstraction has become an 
image of concrete nature. But Jung may give 
us the key to understanding: 


"The deeper layers of the psyche/ 1 he has 
said, "lose their individual uniqueness as they 
retreat farther and farther into darkness. 'Lower 
down/ that is to say, as they approach the auto- 
nomous functional systems, they become in- 
creasingly collective until they are universalized 
and extinguished in the body's materiality, i.e. 
in chemical substances. The body's carbon is 
simply carbon. Hence k at bottom' the psyche is 
simply ‘world.' " 

A comparison of abstract paintings and 
microphotographs shows that utter abstraction 
of imaginative art has in a secret and surpris- 
ing way become "naturalistic," its subject be- 
ing elements of matter. The "great abstraction" 
and the "great realism," which parted at the 
beginning of our century, have come together 
again. We remember Kandinsky's words : "The 
poles open two paths, which both lead to one 
goal at the end." This "goal," the point of 
union, is reached in modern abstract paintings. 
But it is attained completely unconsciously. The 
artist’s intention plays no part in the process. 

This point leads to a most important fact 
about modern art: The artist is, as it were, not 
so free in his creative work as he may think he 
is. If his work is performed in a more or less 
unconscious way, it is controlled bv laws of 
nature that, on the deepest level, correspond to 
the laws of the psyche, and vice versa. 

The great pioneers of modern art gave clear- 

f i 

est expression to its true aims and to the' depths 
lrom which the spirit rose that left its imprint 
on them. T his point is important, though later 
artists, who may have failed to realize it, did 
not always plumb the same depths. Yet neither 
Kandinsky, nor Klee, nor any other of the early 
masters of modern painting, was ever aware of 
the grave psychological danger he was under- 
going with the mystical submersion in the 
chthonic spirit and the primal ground of nature. 
That danger must now be explained. 

As a starting point we may take another 
aspect ol abstract art. The German writer Wil- 
helm Worringer interpreted abstract art as the 
expression of a metaphysical unease and anx- 
iety that seemed to him to be more pronounced 
among northern peoples. As he explained, they 

suffer from reality. The naturalness ol' the 
southern peoples is denied to them and they 
long for a super-real and super-sensual world 
to which they give expression in imaginative or 
abstract art. 

But, as Sir Herbert Read remarks in his 
Concise History of Modern Art , metaphysical 
anxiety is no longer only Germanic and north- 
ern; it now characterizes the whole of the mod- 
ern world. Read quotes Klee, who wrote in 
his Diary at the beginning of 1915: "The more 
horrifying this world becomes (as it is in these 
days) the more art becomes abstract; while a 
world at peace produces realistic art." To Franz 
Marc, abstraction offered a refuge from the 
evil and ugliness in this world. "Very early in 
life I felt that man was ugly. The animals 
seemed to be more lovely and pure, yet even 
among them 1 discovered so much that was re- 
volting and hideous that my painting became 
more and more schematic and abstract." 

A good deal may be learned from a conver- 
sation that took place in 1958 between the 
Italian sculptor Marino Marini and the writer 
Edouard Roditi. The dominant subject that 
Marini treated for years in many variations is 
the nude figure of a youth on a horse. In the 
early versions, which he described in the con- 
versation as "symbols of hope and gratitude 
(after the end of the Second World War), the 
rider sits his horse with outstretched arms, his 

The paintings of Jackson Pollock 
(left, his /Vo 23) were painted in 
a trance (unconsciously) as are the 
works of other modern artists— such 
asthe French "action" painter Georges 
Mathieu (far left). The chaotic but 
powerful result may be compared to 
the massa confusa of alchemy, and 
strangely resembles the hitherto 
hidden forms of matter as revealed 
in microphotographs (see p. 22). 

Right, a similar configuration: 
a vibration pattern made by sound 
waves in glycerine. 

body bending slightly backward. In the course 
of years the treatment of the subject became 
more “abstract." The more or less “classical” 
form of the rider gradually dissolved. 

Speaking of the feeling underlying this 
change, Marini said: “If you look at my 
equestrian statues of the last 12 years in order 
of time, you will notice that the animal's panic 
steadily increases, but that it is frozen with 
terror and stands paralyzed rather than rear- 
ing or taking flight. That is all because I be- 
lieve that we are approaching the end of the 
world. In every figure, I strove to express a 
deepening fear and despair. In this way I am 
attempting to symbolize the last stage of a 
dying myth, the myth of the individual, vic- 
torious hero, of the humanist's man of virtue." 

In fairy tale and myth, the “victorious hero" 
is a symbol of consciousness. His defeat, as 
Marini says himself, means the death of the 
individual, a phenomenon that appears in a 
social context as the submergence of the indi- 
vidual in the mass, and in art as the decline of 
the human element. 

When Roditi asked whether Marini's style 
was abandoning the classical canon on its way 
to becoming “abstract,'’ Marini replied, “As 
soon as art has to express fear, it must of 
itself depart from the classical ideal." He found 
subjects for his work in the bodies excavated 
at Pompeii. Roditi called Marini’s art a “Hiro- 
shima style," for it conjures up visions of the 
end of a world. Marini admitted it. He felt, 
he said, as if he had been expelled from an 
earthly paradise. “Until recently, the sculptor 
aimed at full sensual and powerful^ forms. But 
for the last 15 years, sculpture prefers forms in 

The conversation between Marini and Roditi 
explains the transformation of “sensory" art into 
abstraction that should be clear to anyone who 
has ever walked open-eyed through an exhibi- 
tion of modern art. However much he may 
appreciate or admire its formal qualities, he 
can scarcely fail to sense the fear, despair, ag- 
gression, and mockery that sounds like a cry 
from many works. The “metaphysical anxiety" 
that is expressed by the distress in these pictures 


and sculptures may have arisen from the des- 
pair of a doomed world, as it did with Marini. 
In other cases, the emphasis may lie on the 
religious factor, on the feeling that God is dead. 
There is a close connection between the two. 

At the root of this inner distress lies the de- 
feat (or rather the retreat) of consciousness. In 
the upsurge of mystical experience, everything 
that once bound man to the human world, to 
earth, to time and space, to matter and the 
natural living of life, has been cast aside or 
dissolved. But unless the unconscious is bal- 
anced by the experience of consciousness, it 
will implacably reveal its contrary or negative 
aspect. The wealth of creative sound that made 
the harmony of the spheres, or the wonderful 
mysteries of the primal ground, have yielded to 
destruction and despair. In more than one case 
the artist has become the passive victim of the 

In physics, too, the world of the background 
has revealed its paradoxical nature; the laws 
of the inmost elements of nature, the newly 
discovered structures and relations in its basic 
unit, the atom, have become the scientific foun- 
dation for unprecedented weapons of destruc- 
tion, and opened the way to annihilation. 
Ultimate knowledge and the destruction of the 
world are the two aspects of the discovery of 
the primal ground of nature. 

Jung, who was as familiar with the danger- 
ous dual nature of the unconscious as with the 

Top left and center, two sculptures 
by Marino Marini (1 901 -66), from 
1 945 and 1 951 respectively, show 
how the theme of horse and rider 
was altered from an expression of 
tranquility to one of tortured fear 
and despair, while the sculptures 
themselves grew correspondingly 
more and more abstract. Marini's later 
work was influenced by the equally 
panic-stricken shapes of bodies 
found at Pompeii (left). 

importance of human consciousness, could 
offer mankind only one weapon against cata- 
strophe: the call for individual consciousness, 
which seems so simple and yet is so arduous. 
Consciousness is not only indispensable as a 
counterpoise to the unconscious, and not only 
gives the possibility of meaning to life. It has 
also an eminently practical function. The evil 
witnessed in the world outside, in neighbors or 
neighboring peoples, can be made conscious as 
evil contents of our own psyche as well, and 
this insight would be the first step to a radical 
change in our attitude to our neighbors. 

Envy, lust, sensuality, lies, and all known 
vices are the negative, “dark” aspect of the un- 
conscious, which can manifest itself in two 
ways. In the positive sense, it appears as a 
“spirit of nature, 55 creatively animating man, 
things, and the world. It is the “chthonic 
spirit” that has been mentioned so often in this 
chapter. In the negative sense, the unconscious 
(that same spirit) manifests itself as a spirit of 
evil, as a drive to destroy. 

As has already been pointed out, the alche- 
mists personified this spirit as “the spirit Mercu- 
rius” and called it, with good reason, Mercurius 
duplex (the two-faced, dual Mercurius). In the 
religious language of Christianity, it is called 
the devil. But, however improbable it may 
seem, the devil too has a dual aspect. In the 
positive sense, he appears as Lucifer — literally, 
the light-bringer. 

Looked at in the light of these difficult and 
paradoxical ideas, modern art (which we have 
recognized as symbolic of the chthonic spirit) 
also has a dual aspect. In the positive sense it 
is the expression of a mysteriously profound 
nature-mysticism; in the negative, it can only 
be interpreted as the expression of an evil* or 
destructive spirit. The two sides belong to- 
gether, for the paradox is one of the basic 
qualities of the unconscious and its contents. 

To prevent any misunderstanding, it must 
once more be emphasized that these considera- 
tions have nothing to do with artistic and 
aesthetic values, but are solely concerned with 
the interpretation of modern art as a symbol of 
our time. 


Union of opposites 

There is one more point to be made. The 
spirit of the age is in constant movement. It is 
like a river that flows on, invisibly but surely, 
and given the momentum of life in our century, 
even 10 years is a long time. 

About the middle of this century a change 
began to come over painting. It was nothing 
revolutionary, nothing like the change that 
happened about 1910, which meant the recon- 
struction of art to its very foundations. But 
there were groups of artists who formulated 
their aims in ways not heard before. This trans- 
formation is going on within the frontiers of 
abstract painting. 

The representation of concrete reality, which 
springs from the primal human need of catch- 
ing the passing moment on the wing, has be- 
come a truly concrete sensuous art in the photo- 
graphy of such men as France’s Henri Cartier- 
Bresson, Switzerland’s Werner Bischof, and 
others. We can therefore understand why artists 
continued on their own way of inwardness and 
imagination. For a good many of the young 
artists, however, abstract art as it had been 
practiced for many years offered no adventure, 
no field of conquest. Seeking the new', they 
found it in what lay nearest, yet had been lost 

in nature and man. They were not and are 
not concerned with the reproduction of nature 
in pictures, but with the expression of their own 
emotional experience of nature. 

The French painter Alfred Manessier defined 
the aims of his art in these words: “What we 
have to reconquer is the weight of lost reality. 
We must make for ourselves a new heart, a new 
spirit, a new soul, in the measure of man. The 
painter’s true reality lies neither in abstraction 
nor in realism, but in the reconquest of his 
weight as a human being. At present non-fig- 
urative art seems to me to offer the one oppor- 
tunity for the painter to approach the inward 
reality of himself and to grasp the consciousness 
of his essential self, or even of his being. It is 


only by the rcconquest of his position, I believe, 
that the painter will be able, in the time to 
come, to return slowly to himself, to rediscover 
his own weight and so to strengthen it that it 
can even reach the outward reality of the 
world.’ 1 

Jean Bazaine speaks in similar terms: “It is 
a great temptation for the painter of today to 
paint the pure rhythm of his feeling, the most 
secret pulse of his heart, instead of embodying 
it in a concrete form. That, however, leads only 
to a desiccated mathematics or a kind of ab- 
stract expressionism, which ends in monotony 
and a progressive impoverishment of form. . . . 
But a form that can reconcile man with his 
world is an 'art of communion' by which man, 
at any moment, can recognize his own un- 
formed countenance in the world." 

What in fact artists now have at heart is a 
conscious reunion of their own inward reality 
with the reality of the world or of nature; or, 
in the last resort, a new union of body and soul, 
matter and spirit. That is their way to the “re- 
conquest of their weight as human beings.” 
Only now is the great rift that set in with 
modern art (between “great abstraction" and 
"great realism”) being made conscious and on 
the way to being healed. 

For the onlooker, this first becomes evident 
in the changed atmosphere in the works of these 
artists. There radiates from the pictures of such 
artists as Alfred Manessier or the Belgian-born 
painter Gustave Singier, in spite of all abstrac- 
tion, a belief in the world, and, in spite of all 
intensity of feeling, a harmony of forms and 
colors that often attains serenity. In the French 
painter Jean Lur^at’s famous tapestries of the 

In this century the depiction of 
actuality — once the province of 
the painter and sculptor — has been 
taken over by the photographer, 
whose camera can not only record 
but (like any landscape painting 
of past centuries) can express the 
photographer's own emotional 
experience of the subject. Right, a 
Japanese scene photographed 
by Werner Bischof (1 91 6-54). 

1950s the exuberance of nature pervades the 
picture. His art could be called sensuous as well 
as imaginative. 

We find a serene harmony of forms and col- 
ors also in the work of Paul Klee. This har- 
mony was what he had always been striving 
for. Above all, he had realized the necessity 
of not denying evil. “Even evil must not be a 
triumphant or degrading enemy, but a power 
collaborating in the whole.” But Klee’s starting 
point was not the same. He lived near “the 
dead and the unborn” at an almost cosmic dis- 
tance from this world, while the younger gen- 
eration of painters can be said to be more 
firmly rooted in earth. 

An important point to notice is that modern 
painting, just when it has advanced far enough 
to discern the union of the opposites, has taken 
up religious themes. The “metaphysical void” 
seems to have been overcome. And the utterly 
unexpected has happened : The Church has be- 
come a patron of modern art. We need only 
mention here All Saints at Basle, with windows 
by Alfred Manessier; Assy church, with pic- 
tures by a large number of modern artists; the 
Matisse chapel at Vence; and the church at 
Audincourt, which has works by Jean Bazaine 
and the French artist Fernand Leger. 

The admission of modern art to the Church 
means more than an act of broadmindedness 

on the part of its patrons. It is symbolic of the 
fact that the part played by modern art in re- 
lation to Christianity is changing. The compen- 
satory function of the old hermetic movements 
has made way for the possibility of collabora- 
tion. In discussing the animal symbols of Christ, 
it was pointed out that the light and the chtho- 
nic spirits belonged to each other. It seems as 
if the moment had come today when a new 
stage in the solution of this millennial problem 
might be reached. 

What the future will yield we cannot know — 
whether the bridging of the opposites will give 
positive results, or whether the way will lead 
through yet more unimaginable catastrophes. 
There is too much anxiety and too much dread 
at work in the world, and this is still the pre- 
dominant factor in art and society. Above all, 
there is still too much unwillingness on the part 
of the individual to apply to himself and his 
life the conclusions that can be drawn from art, 
although he might be ready to accept them in 
art. The artist can often express many things, 
unconsciously and without awakening hostility, 
which are resented when they are expressed by a 
psychologist (a fact that could be demonstrated 
even more conclusively in literature than in the 
visual arts) . Confronted by the statements of the 
psychologist, the individual feels directly chal- 
lenged; but what the artist has to say, particu- 


larly in our century, usually remains in an 
impersonal sphere. 

And yet it seems important that the sug- 
gestion of a more whole, and therefore more 
human, form of expression should have be- 
come visible in our time. It is a glimmer of 
hope, symbolized for me (at the time of writ- 
ing: 1961) by a number of paintings by the 
French artist Pierre Soulages. Behind a cataract 
of huge, black rafters there glimmers a clear, 
pure blue or a radiant yellow. Light is dawn- 
ing behind darkness. 

Mid-20th-century art seems to be 
moving away from a Marini - 1 ike 
despair — as is seen in the gesture 
of Jean Lurcat, who exhibited his 
work in a field (top left), a link 
with nature and the earth. Above, 
Dedicace a Sainte Marie Madeleine 
by Alfred Manessier {born 1911). 
Top right, Pour la Naissance du 
Surhomme by France's Pierre-Yves 
Tremois (born 1 921 ). Both works 
indicate a tendency toward life and 
wholeness. The painting, right, by 
Pierre Soulages (born 1 91 9) might 
be understood as a symbol of hope: 
Behind the cataclysmic darkness 
can be seen a glimmer of light. 

5 Symbols in an individual analysis 

Jolande Jacobi 

A 1 7th-century engraving of "The Palace of Dreams." 

Symbols in an individual analysis 

The beginning of the analysis 

There is a widespread belief that the methods 
of Jungian psychology are applicable only to 
middle-aged people. True, many men and 
women reach middle age without achieving 
psychological maturity, and it is therefore 
necessary to help them through the neglected 
phases of their development. They have not 
completed the first part of the process of indi- 
viduation that Dr. M.-L. von Franz has de- 
scribed. But it is also true that a young person 
can encounter serious problems as he grows up. 
If a young person is afraid of life and finds it 
hard to adjust to reality, he might prefer to 
dwell in his fantasies or to remain a child. In 
such a young person (especially if he is intro- 
verted) one can sometimes discover unexpected 
treasures in the unconscious, and by bringing 
them into consciousness strengthen his ego and 
give him the psychic energy he needs to grow 
into a mature person. That is the function of 
the powerful symbolism of our dreams. 

Other contributors to this book have de- 
scribed the nature of these symbols and the role 
they play in man’s psychological nature. I wish 
to show how analysis can aid the individuation 
process by taking the example of a young en- 
gineer, aged 25, whom I shall call Henry. 

Henry came from a rural district in eastern 
Switzerland. His father, of Protestant peasant 
stock, was a general practitioner: Henry de- 
scribed him as a man with high moral standards, 
but a rather withdrawn person who found it 
difficult to relate to other people. He was more 
of a father to his patients than to his children. 
At home, Henry’s mother was the dominant 
personality. “Wc were raised by the strong 
hand of our mother,” he said on one occasion. 
She came from a family with an academic 
background and wide artistic interests. She her- 
self, in spite of her strictness, had a broad spiri- 
tual horizon; she was impulsive and romantic 
(she had a great love for Italy). Though she was 
by birth a Catholic, her children had been 

brought up in the Protestantism of their father. 
Henry had a sister, older than himself, with 
whom he had a good relationship. 

Henry was introverted, shy, finely drawn, 
and very tall, with light hair, a high pale fore- 
head, and blue eyes with dark shadows. He did 
not think that neurosis (the most usual reason) 
had brought him to me, but rather an inner 
urge to work on his psyche. A strong mother- 
tie, however, and a fear of committing himself 
to life were hidden behind this urge; but these 
were only discovered during the analytical work 
with me. He had just completed his studies and 
taken a position in a large factory, and he was 
facing the many problems of a young man on 
the threshold of manhood. “It appears to me,” 
he wrote in a letter asking for an interview, 
“that this phase of my life is particularly im- 
portant and meaningful. 1 must decide either 
to remain unconscious in a well-protected secu- 
rity, or else to venture on a yet unknown way 
of which I have great hopes.” The choice thus 
confronting him was whether to remain a 
lonely, vacillating, and unrealistic youth or to 
become a self-sufficient and responsible adult. 

Henry told me that he preferred books to 
society; he felt inhibited among people, and 
was often tormented by doubts and self-criti- 
cism. He was well read for his age and had a 
leaning toward aesthetic intellectualism. After 
an earlier atheistic stage, he became rigorously 
Protestant, but finally his religious attitude 
became completely neutral. He had chosen a 
technical education because he felt his talents 
lay in mathematics and geometry. He possessed 
a logical mind, trained in the natural sciences, 
but he also had a propensity toward the irra- 
tional and mystical that he did not want to 
admit even to himself. 

About two years before his analysis began, 
Henry had become engaged to a Catholic girl 
from the French part of Switzerland. He de- 
scribed her as charming, efficient, and full of 


initiative. Nevertheless, he was uncertain 
whether he should undertake the responsibility 
of marriage. Since he had so little acquaintance 
with girls, he thought it might be better to wait, 
or even to remain a bachelor dedicated to a 
scholarly life. His doubts were strong enough 
to prevent his reaching a decision; he needed 
a further step toward maturity before he could 
feel sure of himself . 

Although qualities of both' his parents were 
combined in Henry, he was markedly mother- 
bound. In his consciousness, 'he was identified 
with his real (or “light”) mother, who repre- 
sented high ideals and intellectual ambitions. 
But in his unconscious he was deeply in the 
power of the dark aspects of his mother-bound 
condition. His unconscious still held his ego in 
a strangle-hold. All his clear-cut thinking and 
his efforts to find a firm standpoint in the 
purely rational remained nothing more than an 
intellectual exercise. 

The need to escape from this “mother- 
prison" was expressed in hostile reactions to his 
real mother and a rejection of the “inner 
mother" as a symbol of the feminine side of the 
unconscious. But an inner power sought to 
hold him back in the condition of childhood, 
resisting everything that attracted him to the 
outside world. Even the attractions of his 
fiancee were not enough to free him from his 
mother-ties, and thus help him find himself. He 

was not aware that his inner urge for growth 
(which he felt strongly] included the need to 
detach himself from his mother. 

My analytical work with Henry lasted nine 
months. Altogether, there were 35 sessions in 
which he presented 50 dreams. So short an 
analysis is rare. It is only possible when energy- 
laden dreams like Henry’s speed up the process 
of development. Of course, from the Jungian 
point of view, there is no rule for the length of 
time required for a successful analysis. All de- 
pends on the individual’s readiness to realize 
inner facts and on the material presented by 
his unconscious. 

Like most introverts, Henry led a rather 
monotonous outer life. During the day he was 
completely involved in his job. In the evenings 
he sometimes went out with his fiancee or with 
friends, with whom he liked to have literary 
discussions. Quite often he sat in his lodgings 
absorbed in a book or in his own thoughts. 
Though we regularly discussed the happenings 
of his daily life, and also his childhood and 
youth, we usually got fairly quickly to the in- 
vestigation of his dreams and the problems his 
inner life presented to him. It was extraordi- 
nary to see how strongly his dreams emphasized 
his “call" to spiritual development. 

But I must make it clear that not everything 
described here was told to Henry. In analysis 
one must always remain conscious of how ex- 

Left, the palace and monastery of 
Escorial, Spain, built by Philip II 
about 1 563. Its fortress structure 
images the introvert's withdrawal 
from the world Below, a drawing by 
Henry of a barn he built asa child 
with fortress-like battlements. 

plosive the dreamer's dream symbols may be 
for him. The analyst can hardly be too careful 
and reserved. If too bright a light is thrown on 
the dream-language of symbols, the dreamer 
can be driven into anxiety, and thus led into 
rationalization as a defense mechanism. Or he 
can no longer assimilate them, and can fall into 
a severe psychic crisis. Also, the dreams re- 
ported and commented on here are by no 
means all the dreams that Henry had during 
his analysis. 1 can discuss only an important 
few that influenced his development. 

In the beginning of our work, childhood 
memories with important symbolic meanings 
came up. The oldest dated back to Henry’s 
fourth year. He said: “One morning I was 
allowed to go with my mother to the baker’s 
shop and there I received a crescent roll from 
the baker's wife. I did not eat the roll but 
carried it proudly in my hand. Only my mother 
and the baker's wife were present, so I was the 
only man.” Such crescents are popularly called 
“moon-teeth,'’ and this symbolic allusion to the 
moon underlines the dominating power of the 
1'eminine -a power to which the little boy may 
have felt exposed and which, as the “only 
man,” he was proud of being able to confront. 

Another childhood memory came from his 
fifth year. It concerned Henry's sister, who 
came home after her examinations at school 
and found him constructing a toy barn. The 
barn was made with blocks of wood arranged 
in the form of a square and surrounded with 
a kind of hedge that looked like the battle- 
ments of a castle. Henry was pleased with his 
achievement, and said teasingly to his sister: 
“You have started school but you're already on 
holiday." Her reply, that he was on holiday all 
year, upset him terribly. He felt deeply hurt 
that his “achievement" was not taken seriously. 

Even years later Henry had not forgotten 
the bitter hurt and injustice that he had felt 
when his construction was rejected. His later 
problems concerning the assertion of his mas- 
culinity and the conflict between rational and 
fantasy values are already visible in this early 
experience. And these problems are also to be 
seen in the images of his first dream. 


The initial dream 

The day after Henry’s first visit to me, he had 
the following dream : 

I was on an excursion with a group of people 
I did not know. We were going to the Zinalrot- 
horn. We had started from Samaden. We only 
walked about an hour because we were to camp 
and have some theatricals. I was not given an 
active part. I especially remember one performer 
— a young woman in a pathetic role wearing a long 
flowing robe. 

It was midday and I wanted to go on to the 
pass. As all the others preferred to remain, I went 
up alone, leaving my equipment behind. How- 
ever, I found myself right back in the valley and 
completely lost my orientation. I wanted to re- 
turn to my party but did not know which moun- 
tainside I should climb. I was hesitant about ask- 
ing. Finally, an old woman showed me the way 
I must go. 

Then I ascended from a different starting 
point than our group had used in the morning. 
It was a matter of making a turn at the right 
altitude and then following the mountain slope 
to return to the party. I climbed 'along a cog- 
wheel mountain railway on the right side. On my 
left little cars constantly passed me, each con- 
taining one hidden bloated little man in a blue 
suit. It is said they are dead. I was afraid of other 
cars coming from behind and kept turning around 
to look, so as not to be run over. My anxiety was 

At the point where I had to turn off. to the 
right, there were people awaiting me. They took 
me to an inn. A cloudburst came up. I regretted 
that my equipment -my rucksack, and my motor 
bike — were not there, but I was told not to get 
them till next morning. I accepted the advice. 

One of Henry's childhood memories 
involved a crescent roll, which he 
drew (top left). Center, the same 
shape on a modern Swiss bakery sign. 
The crescent shape has long been 
linked with the moon and thus with 
the feminine principle, as in the 
crown (left) of the goddess Ishtar 
of third century b.c. Babylon. 

Dr. Jung assigned great importance to the 
first dream in an analysis, for, according to 
him, it often has anticipatory value. A deci- 
sion to go into analysis is usually accompanied 
by an emotional upheaval that disturbs the 
deep psychic levels from which archetypal sym- 
bols arise. The first dreams therefore often 
present “collective images” that provide a per- 
spective for the analysis as a whole and can 
give the therapist insight into the dreamer’s 
psychic conflicts. 

What does the above dream tell us of Henry’s 
future development? We must first examine 
some of the associations that Henry himself sup- 
plied. The village of Samaden had been the 
home of Jiirg Jenatsch, a famous 17th-century 
Swiss freedom-fighter. The “theatricals” called 
up the thought of Goethe’s Wilhelm Meisters 
Lehrjahre , which Henry liked very much. In 
the woman he saw a resemblance to the figure 
in a painting called The Island of the Dead by 
the 19th-century Swiss artist Arnold Bocklin. 
The “wise old woman,” as he called her, 
seemed to be associated on the one hand to 
his analyst, on the other to the charwoman in 
J. B. Priestley’s play They Came to a City. The 
cog-wheel railway reminded him of the barn 
(with battlements) that he had built as a child. 

The dream describes an “excursion” (a sort 
of “walking tour”), which is a striking parallel 
to Henry’s decision to undertake analysis. The 
individuation process is often symbolized by a 
voyage of discovery to unknown lands. Such 
a voyage takes place in John Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s 
Progress , or in Dante’s Divina Commedia . The 
“traveler” in Dante’s poem, searching for a 
way, comes to a mountain that he decides to 
climb. But because of three strange animals (a 
motif that will also appear in one of Henry’s 
later dreams) he is forced to descend into the 
valley and even into hell. (Later he ascends 
again to purgatory and finally reaches para- 
dise.) From this parallel one could deduce that 


The initial stage of the process of 
individuation can sometimes be a 
period of disorientation — as was the 
case with Henry Left, the first 
woodcut from the 1 5th century book 
The Dream of Pol iphilo shows the 
dreamer fearfully entering a dark 
wood — perhaps representing his 
entrance into the unknown. 

Associations produced by Henry 
to his first dream: right, Island 
of the Dead by the 1 9th -century 
Swiss artist Arnold Bocklin. Far 
right, a scene from the 1 944 London 
production of J. B Priestley's They 
Came to a City, which concerns the 
reactions of a group of people from 
many walks of life to an "ideal 
city.'' One of the central characters 
is a charwoman, left of picture. 

there might be a similar period of disorienta- 
tion and lonely seeking in store for Henry. The 
first part of this life-journey, represented as 
climbing a mountain, offers ascent from the 
unconscious to an elevated point of view of the 
ego — i.e. to an increased consciousness. 

Samaden is named as the starting point of 
the excursion. This is where Jenatsch (whom 
we may take as embodying the ‘'freedom-seek- 
ing" sense within Henry’s unconscious) started 
his campaign for the liberation of the Veltlin 
region of Switzerland from the French. 
Jenatsch had other characteristics in common 
with Henry: He was a Protestant who fell in 
love with a Catholic girl; and, like Henry, 
whose analysis was to free him from his mother- 
ties and from fear of life, Jenatsch also fought 
for liberation. One could interpret this as a 
favorable augury for the success of Henry's own 
fight for freedom. The goal of the excursion is 
the Zinalrothorn, a mountain in western Swit- 
zerland that he did not know. The word rot 
(“red”) in Zinalro/horn touches on Henry's 
emotional problem. Red is usually symbolic of 
feeling or passion; here it points to the value 
of the feeling-function, which was insufficiently 
developed in Henry. And the word “horn" 
reminds one of the crescent roll in the baker's 
shop of' Henry's childhood. 

After a short walk, a halt is called, and 
Henry can return to a state of passivity. This 


also belongs to his nature. The point is under- 
lined by the “theatricals.” Attending the theatre 
(which is an imitation of real life) is a popular 
way of evading an active part in life’s drama. 
The spectator can identify with the play, yet 
continue to pander to his fantasies. This kind 
of identification permitted the Greeks to experi- 
ence catharsis, much as the psycho-drama initi- 
ated by the American psychiatrist J. L. Moreno 
is now used as a therapeutic aid. Some such 
process may have enabled Henry to undergo 
an inner development when his associations 
raised memories of Wilhelm Meisler , Goethe’s 
story of the maturing of a young man. 

That H enry should have been impressed by 
the romantic appearance of a woman is also 
not surprising. This figure resembles Henry's 
mother and is at the same time a personifica- 
tion of his own unconscious feminine side. The 
connection Henry makes between her and 
Bbcklin's Island of the Dead points to his de- 
pressive mood, so well expressed by the painting, 
which shows a white-robed priest-like figure 
steering a boat bearing a coffin toward an 
island. We have here a significant double 
paradox: The keel of the boat seems to sug- 
gest a contrary course, away from the island; 
and the “priest” is a figure of uncertain sex. 
In Henry’s associations, this figure is certainly 
hermaphroditic. The double paradox coincides 
with Henry’s ambivalence: The opposites in 

his soul are still too undifferentiated to be 
clearly separated. 

After this interlude in the dream, Henry 
suddenly becomes aware that it is noon and 
he must go on. So he again starts for the pass. 
A mountain pass is a well-known symbol for a 
“situation of transition” that leads from an old 
attitude of mind to a new one. Henry must go 
alone; it is essential for his ego to surmount 
the test unaided. 'Thus he leaves his kit behind 
— an action that signifies that his mental equip- 
ment has become a burden, or that he must 
change his normal way of going about things. 

But he does not reach the pass. He loses his 
bearings and finds himself back in the valley. 
This failure shows that while Henry’s ego de- 
cides on activity, his other psychic entities (re- 
presented by the other members of the party) 
remain in the old state of passivity and refuse 
to accompany the ego. (When the dreamer 
himself appears in a dream, he usually repre- 
sents only his conscious ego; the other figures 
stand for his more or less unknown, uncon- 
scious qualities.) 

Henry is in a situation where he is helpless, 
yet ashamed to admit it. At this moment he 
meets an old woman who indicates the right 
way to him. He can do nothing but accept 
her advice. The helpful “old woman” is a 
well-known symbol in myths and fairy tales for 
the wisdom of the eternal female nature. The 

rationalist Henry hesitates to accept her help 
because such acceptance requires a sacrificium 
intellects a sacrifice, or discarding, of a 
rational way of thought. (This demand will 
often be made of Henry in later dreams.) Such 
a sacrifice is unavoidable; it applies to his 
relationship with the analysis as well as with 
everyday life. 

He associated the figure of the “old woman” 
to the charwoman in Priestley’s play about a 
new “dream” city (perhaps an analogy to the 
New Jersusalem of the Apocalypse) into which 
the characters can enter only after a kind of 
initiation. Phis association seems to show that 
Henry had intuitively recognized this confron- 
tation as something decisive for him. The char- 
woman in Priestley’s play says that in the city 
“they have promised me a room of my own.” 
There she will be self-reliant and independent, 
as Henry seeks to be. 

If such a technically minded young man as 
Henry is consciously to choose the way of 
psychic development, he must be prepared lor 
a reversal of his old attitudes. Therefore, on the 
advice of the woman, he must start his climb 
from a different spot. Only then will it be pos- 
sible for him to judge at what level he must 
deviate to reach the group - the other qualities 
of his psyche --that he had left behind. 

He climbs a cog-wheel railway track (a motif 
perhaps reflecting his technical education) and 

2 79 

keeps to the right side of the track — which is 
the conscious side. (In the history of symbolism, 
the right side generally represents the realm of 
consciousness; the left, the unconscious.) From 
the lei t, little cars are coming down, and in 
each a little man is hidden. Henry is afraid that 
an unnoticed upward-bound car might hit him 
from the rear. His anxiety proves groundless, 
but it reveals that Henry is afraid of what, so 
to speak, lies behind his ego. 

The bloated, blue-clothed men might sym- 
bolize sterile intellectual thoughts that are be- 
ing brought down mechanically. Blue often 
denotes the function of thinking. Thus the 

men might be symbols of ideas or attitudes that 
have died on the intellectual heights where the 
air is too thin. They could also represent life- 
less inner parts of Henry's psyche. 

A comment on these men is made in the 
dream: “It is said they are dead." But Henry 
is alone. Who makes this statement? It is a 
voice — and when a voice is heard in a dream it 
is a most meaningful occurrence. Dr. Jung 
identified the appearance of a voice in dreams 
with an intervention of the Self. It stands for a 
knowledge that has its roots in the collective 
fundaments of the psyche. What the voice says 
cannot be disputed. 

The insight Henry has gained about the 
“dead" formulas, to which he has been too 
committed, marks a turning point in the dream. 
He has at last reached the right place for tak- 
ing a new direction, to the right (the conscious 
direction), toward the conscious and the outer 
world. There he finds the people he left behind 
waiting for him; and thus he can become con- 
scious of previously unknown aspects of his per- 
sonality. Since his ego has surmounted the 
dangers it confronted alone (an accomplish- 
ment that could make him more mature and 
stable), he can rejoin the group or “collective" 
and get shelter and food. 

Then comes the rain, a cloudburst that re- 
laxes tension and makes the earth fertile. In 
mythology, rain was often thought to be a 
“love-union" between heaven and earth. In the 
Eleusinian mysteries, for instance, after every- 
thing had been purified by water, the call went 
up to heaven: “Let it rain!" and down to 

Left, the Greek maiden Danae, who 
was impregnated by Zeus in the form 
of a shower of gold {from a painting 
by the 1 6th century Flemish artist 
Jan Gossaert) Like Henry's dream, 
this myth reflects the symbolism of 
the cloudburst as a sacred marriage 
between heaven and earth. 

In another of Henry's dreams a doe 
appears— an image of shy femininity 
as is the fawn in the painting, 
right, by the 1 9th century British 
artist Edwin Landseer. 

earth: “Be fruitful !” This was understood as 
a sacred marriage of the gods. In this way rain 
can be said to represent a “solution" in the 
literal sense of the word. 

Coming down, Henry again meets the col- 
lective values symbolized by the rucksack and 
motorcycle. He has passed through a phase in 
which he has strengthened his ego-conscious- 
ness by proving he can hold his own, and he 
has a renewed need for social contact. However, 
he accepts the suggestion of his friends that he 
should wait and fetch his things the next morn- 
ing. Thus he submits for the second time to 
advice that comes from elsewhere: the first 
time, to the advice of the old woman, to a 
subjective power, an archetypal figure; the 
second time, to a collective pattern. With this 
step Henry has passed a milestone on the road 
to maturity. 

As an anticipation of the inner development 
that Henry could hope to achieve through 
analysis, this dream was extraordinarily pro- 
mising. The conflicting opposites that kept 
Henry's soul in tension were impressively sym- 
bolized. On the one hand, there was his con- 
scious urge to ascend, and on the other his 
tendency to passive contemplation. Also, the 
image of the pathetic young woman in her 
white robes (representing Henry’s sensitive and 
romantic feelings) contrasts with the bloated 
corpses in blue suits (representing his sterile in- 
tellectual world). However, to overcome these 
obstacles and bring about a balance between 
them would be possible for Henry only after the 
most severe trials. 

Fear of the unconscious 

The problems we encountered in Henry’s initial 
dream showed up in many others — problems 
like vacillation between masculine activity and 
feminine passivity, or a tendency to hide be- 
hind intellectual asceticism. He feared the 
world, yet was attracted to it. Fundamentally, 
he feared the obligations of marriage, which 
demanded that he form a responsible relation- 
ship with a woman. Such an ambivalence is 
not unusual for someone on the threshold of 
manhood. Though in terms of age Henry had 
left that phase behind him, his inner maturity 
did not match his years. This problem is often 
met in the introvert, with his fear of reality and 
outer life. 

The fourth dream that Henry recounted 
provided a striking illustration of his psycho- 
logical state: 

It seems to me that I have had this dream 
endless times. Military service, long-distance race. 
Alone I go on my way. I never reach the goal. 
Will I be the last? The course is well known to 
me, all of it deja vu . The start is in a little wood, 
and the ground is covered with dry leaves. The 
terrain slopes gently to an idyllic little brook 
that invites one to tarry. Later, there is a dusty 
country road. It leads toward Hombrechtikon, a 
small village near the upper lake of Zurich. A 
brook bordered by willows similar to a painting 
of Bocklin's in which a dreamy female figure 
follows the course of the water. Night falls. In a 
village I ask for directions to the road. I am told 
the road leads on for seven hours over a pass. I 
gather myself together and go on. 

However, this time the end of the dream differs. 
After the willow-bordered brook I get into a 
wood. There I discover a doe that runs away. 

I am proud of this observation. The doe has 
appeared on the left side and now I turn to the 
right. Here I see three strange creatures, hall 
pig, half dog, with the legs of a kangaroo. The 
faces are quite undifferentiated, with large droop- 
ing dog ears. Maybe they are costumed people. As a 
boy, I once masqueraded in the circus costume of 
a donkey. 


The beginning of the dream is conspicuously 
like Henry's initial dream. A dreamlike female 
figure again appears, and the setting of the 
dream is associated with another painting 
by Bocklin. This painting, called Autumn 
Thoughts , and the dry leaves mentioned earlier 
in the dream underline the autumnal mood. 
A romantic atmosphere also reappears in this 
dream. Apparently this inner landscape, repre- 
senting Henry's melancholy, is very familiar to 
him. Again he is in a collective of people, but 
this time with military comrades on a long- 
distance race. 

This whole situation (as the military service 
also suggests) might be regarded as a repre- 
sentation of an average man's fate. Henry him- 
self said: “It's a symbol of life." But the 
dreamer does not want to adjust to it. He goes 
on alone - which was probably always the case 
with Henry. That is why he has the impres- 
sion that everything is deja vu . His thought 
(“I never reach the goal") indicates strong feel- 
ings of inferiority and a belief that he cannot 
win the “long-distance race." 

His way leads to Hombrcchtikon, a name 
that reminds him of his secret plans to break 
away from home {Horn — home, brechen — to 
break). But because this breaking away does 
not occur, he again (as in the initial dream) 
loses his sense of orientation and must ask for 

Dreams compensate more or less explicitly 
for the dreamer’s conscious attitude of mind. 

The romantic, maidenly figure of Henry's con- 
scious ideal is balanced by the appearance of 
the strange, female-like animals. Henry's world 
of instincts is symbolized by something femi- 
nine. The wood is a symbol of an unconscious 
area, a dark place where animals live. At first 
a doe — a symbol of shy, fugitive, innocent 
womanliness — emerges, but only for a moment. 
Then Henry sees three mixed-up animals of a 
strange and repulsive appearance. They seem 
to represent undifferentiated instinctuality — a 
sort of confused mass of his instincts, contain- 
ing the raw material for a later development. 
Their most striking characteristic is that they 
are all virtually faceless, and thus without the 
slightest glimmerings of consciousness. 

In the minds of many people, the pig is 
closely associated to dirty sexuality. (Circe, 
for example, changed the men who desired her 
into swine.) The dog may stand for loyalty, 
but also for promiscuity, because it shows no 
discrimination in its choice of partners. The 
kangaroo, however, is often a symbol for moth- 
erliness and tender carrying capacity. 

All these animals present only rudimentary 
traits, and even these are senselessly contami- 
nated. In alchemy, the “prime material" was 
often represented by such monstrous and fabu- 
lous creatures- mixed forms of animals. In 
psychological terms, they would probably sym- 
bolize the original total unconsciousness, out 
of which the individual ego can rise and begin 
to develop toward maturity. 

Left, Henry's drawing of the strange 
animals of his dream. They are mute 
and blind, unable to communicate, 
and so represent his unconscious 
state The animal on the ground 
(which he colored green, the color of 
vegetation and nature, and in folk- 
lore a symbol of hope) hints at 
possibilities of growth and a chance 
of differentiation. 


Henry's fear of tlie monsters becomes evident 
by his attempt to make them seem harmless. 
He wants to convince himself that they are 
only dressed-up people, like himself in a boy- 
hood masquerade. His anxiety is natural. A 
man discovering such inhuman monsters in his 
inner self, as symbols of certain traits of his 
unconscious, has every reason to be afraid. 

Another dream also shows Henry's fear of 
the depths of the unconscious: 

I am a cabin boy in a sailing boat. Paradoxi- 
cally, the sails are spread, though there is a 
complete calm. My task consists of holding a 
rope that serves to fasten a mast. Strangely enough, 
the railing is a wall covered with stone slabs. 
This whole structure lies exactly on the border 
between the water and the sailing boat that 
floats there alone. I hold fast to the rope (not to 
the mast) and I am forbidden to look into the 

In this dream Henry is in a psychological 
borderline, situation. The railing is a wall that 
protects him but at the same time obstructs his 
view. He is forbidden to look into the water 
(where he might discover unknown powers). 
All these images reveal his doubt and fear. 

The man who fears the communications of 
his inner depths (like Henry) is as much afraid 
of the feminine element in himself as he is of 
real women. At one moment he is fascinated 
by her, at another he tries to escape; fascinated 
and terrified, he flees so as not to become her 

"prey.’' He does not dare to approach a be- 
loved (and therefore idealized) partner with 
his animal-like sexuality. 

As a typical result of his mother-tie, Henry 
had difficulty in giving both feeling and sensu- 
ality to the same woman. Again and again his 
dreams brought proof of his desire to free him- 
self from this dilemma. In one dream he 
was a "monk on a secret mission.'’ In another, 
his instincts tempted him into a brothel: 

Together with a military comrade who has had 
many erotic adventures I find myself waiting in 
front of a house on a dark street in an unknown 
city. Entrance is permitted only to women. There- 
fore, in the hall, my friend puts on a little carni- 
val mask of a woman’s face and goes up the stairs. 
Possibly 1 did the same as he, but I do not remember 

What this dream proposes would satisfy 
Henry’s curiosity — but only at the price of a 
fraud. As a man he lacks the courage to enter 
the house, which is obviously a brothel. But if 
he divests himself of his masculinity, he might 
gain an insight into this forbidden world — for- 
bidden by his conscious mind. The dream, 
however, does not tell us whether he decides 
to enter. Henry had not yet overcome his inhi- 
bitions- an understandable failure if we con- 
sider the implications of going into the brothel. 

The above dream seemed to me to reveal a 
homoerotic strain in Henry: He appeared to 
feel that a feminine "mask” would make him 

The pig like animal of the dream 
connotes bestiality and lustfulness - 
as in the myth of Circe, who turned 
men into swine Above left, from 
a Greek vase, a pig -man, Odysseus, 
and Circe. Right, in one of the 
cartoons by George Grosz attacking 
pre-war German society, a man (with 
a prostitute) is given a pig s head 
to show his vulgarity 

attractive to men. This hypothesis was sup- 
ported by the following dream: 

1 find myself back in my fifth or sixth year. My 
playmate of those days tells me how he partici- 
pated in an obscene act with the director of a 
factory. My friend laid his right hand on the 
man's penis to keep it warm and at the same 
time to warm his own hand. The director was an 
intimate friend of my father's whom I venerated 
for his broad and varied interests. But he was 
laughed at by us as an “eternal youth.” 

For children of that age homoerotic play is 
not unusual. That Henry still came to it in his 
dream suggests that it was loaded with guilt 
feelings, and therefore strongly repressed. Such 
feelings were linked to his deep fear about form- 
ing a lasting tie with a woman. Another dream 
and its associations illustrated this conflict: 

I take part in the wedding of an unknown couple. 
At one in the morning the little wedding party 
returns from the festivities— the bridal couple, the 
best man, and the maid of honor. They enter a 
large courtyard where I await them. It seems 
that the newlyweds have already had a quarrel, as 
well as the other couple. They finally find the 
solution by having the two men and the two women 
retire separately. 

Henry explained: “You see here the war of 
the sexes as Giraudoux describes it. 55 And then 
he added : “The palace in Bavaria, where I 
remember seeing this dream-courtyard, has 
until lately been disfigured by emergency 
housing for poor people. When I visited there, 
I asked myself if it would not be preferable to 
eke out a poor existence in the ruins of classic 
beauty than to lead an active life surrounded 
by the ugliness of a great city. I also asked 
myself when I was a witness at the wedding 
of a comrade whether his marriage would last, 
for his bride made an unfavorable impression 
on me.” 

The longing to withdraw into passivity and 
introversion, the fear of an unsuccessful mar- 
riage, the dream’s separation of the sexes — all 
these are unmistakable symptoms of the secret 
doubts hidden beneath Henry’s consciousness. 

The saint and the prostitute 

Henry's psychic condition was most impres- 
sively depicted in the following dream, which 
exposed his fear of primitive sensuality and 
his desire to escape into a kind of asceticism. 
In it one can see the direction his development 
was taking. For this reason the dream will be 
interpreted at greater length. 

I find myself on a narrow mountain road. On 
the left (going down) there is a deep abyss, on 
the right a wall of rock. Along the road there are 
several caves, shelters, cut out of the rock, as 
protection from the weather for lonely wan- 
derers. In one of these caves, half hidden, a 
prostitute has taken refuge. Strangely, I see her 
from behind, from the rock side. She has a form- 
less, spongy body. I look at her with curiosity 
and touch her buttocks. Perhaps, it suddenly 
seems to me, she is not a woman but a kind of 
male prostitute. 

This same creature comes then to the fore as a 
saint with a short crimson coat thrown around 
his shoulders. He strides down the road and goes 
into another, much larger cave fitted with rough- 
hewn chairs and benches. With a haughty look 
he drives out all those already present, also me. 
Then he and his followers move in and establish 

The personal association that Henry contri- 
buted to the prostitute was the “Venus of Wil- 
lendorf,” a little carved figure (from the paleo- 


lithic age) of a fleshy woman, probably a 
nature or fertility goddess. Then he added : 

“I first heard that touching the buttocks is a 
fertility rite when I was on a tour through the 
Wallis [a canton in French Switzerland ], where 
I visited ancient Celtic graves and excavations. 
There I was told that there was once a smooth 
sloping surface of tiles smeared with all kinds 
of substances. Infertile women had to slide 
down on their bare buttocks in order to cure 
their sterility.” 

To the coat of the “saint,” Henry associated 
this: “My fiancee owns a jacket of similar 
shape, but it's white. On the evening before 
the dream we were out dancing, and she was 
wearing this white jacket. Another girl, who 
is her friend, was with us. She had a crimson 
jacket that 1 liked better.” 

If dreams are not wish-fulfillments fas Freud 
taught) but rather, as Jung assumed, "self-re- 
presentations of the unconscious,” then we must 
admit that Henry's psychic condition could 
hardly be better represented than in the de- 
scription given in the "saint” dream. 

Henry is a “lonely wanderer" on the narrow 
path. But (perhaps thanks to analysis)' he is 
already on his way down from inhospitable 
heights. To the left, on the side of the uncon- 
scious, his road is bordered by the terrifying 

depths of an abyss. On the right side, the side 
of consciousness, the way is blocked by the 
rigid rock wall of his conscious views. How- 
ever, in the caves (which might represent, so 
to speak, unconscious areas in Henry’s field of 
consciousness) there are places where refuge can 
be found when bad weather comes — in other 
words, when outside tensions become too 

The caves are the result of purposeful human 
work: cut into the rock. In a way they re- 
semble the gaps that occur in our conscious- 
ness when our power of concentration has 
reached its limits and is broken, so that the 
stuff of fantasy can penetrate without restraint. 
At such times something unexpected can reveal 
itself and allow' a deep insight into the back- 
ground of the psyche — a glimpse into the un- 
conscious regions where our imagination has 
free play. Moreover, rock caves may be symbols 
of the womb of Mother Earth, appearing as 
mysterious caverns in which transformation 
and rebirth can come about. 

Thus the dream seems to represent Henry's 
introverted withdrawal- when the world be- 
comes too difficult for him— into a “cave” with- 
in his consciousness where he can succumb to 
subjective fantasies. This interpretation would 
also explain why he seeks the female figure — 

Left, Henry's drawing of the boat 
of his dream, with a stone wall for 
a railing — another image of his 
introversion and fear of life. 

Right, the prehistoric sculpture 
known asthe "Venus of Willendorf" 
— one of Henry's associations to 
the image of the prostitute in his 
dream In the same dream, the saint 
is seen in a sacred cave. Many 
actual caves are holy places like 
the Cave of Bernadette (far right) 
at Lourdes, where a vision of the 
Virgin Mary appeared to a girl. 


a replica of some of the inner feminine traits of 
his psyche. She is a formless, spongy, half- 
hidden prostitute representing the repressed 
image in his unconscious of a woman whom 
Henry would never have approached in con- 
scious life. She would always have been strictly 
taboo to him in spite of the fact that fas the 
opposite of a too-much-venerated mother) the 
prostitute would have a secret fascination for 
him— as for every son with a mother-complex. 

The idea of restricting a relationship with a 
woman to a purely animal-like sensuality, ex- 
cluding all feelings, is often enticing to such a 
young man. In such a union he can keep his 
feelings split off, and thus can remain “true” 
to his mother in an ultimate sense. Thus, in 
spite of everything, the taboo set by the mother 
against every other woman remains inflexibly 
effective in the psyche of the son. 

Henry, who seems to have withdrawn totally 
to the background of his fantasy-cave, sees the 
prostitute only “from behind.” He dares not 
look her in the face. But “from the back” also 
means from her least human side -her buttocks 

(i.e. the part of her body that will stimulate 
the sensual activity of the male). 

By touching the buttocks of the prostitute, 
Henry unconsciously carries out a kind of fer- 
tility rite, similar to the rites that are practiced 
in many primitive tribes. The laying on of 
hands and healing often go together; in the 
same way, touching with the hand can be 
either a defense or a curse. 

Immediately the idea arises that the figure is 
not a woman after all but a male prostitute. 
The figure thus becomes hermaphroditic, like 
many mythological figures (and like the “priest” 
figure of the first dream). Insecurity concerning 
his own sex can often be observed in a pubes- 
cent individual ; and for this reason homosexu- 
ality in adolescence is not considered unusual. 
Nor is such uncertainty exceptional for a young 
man with Henry's psychological structure; he 
had already implied this in some of his earlier 

But repression (as well as sexual uncertainty) 
may have caused the confusion about the sex 
of the prostitute. The female figure that has 

A coat can often symbolize the outer 
mask or persona that one presents to 
the world The mantle of the prophet 
Elijah bore a similar meaning: When 
he ascended to heaven (left, in a 
Swedish peasant painting), he left 
the mantle behind for his successor 
Elisha Thus the mantle represented 
the prophet's power and role, to be 
assumed by his successor ( In the 
painting the mantle is red, like the 
saint's coat in Henry's dream.) 

both attracted and repelled the dreamer is 
transformed —first of all into a man and then 
into a saint. T he second transformation elimi- 
nates everything sexual from the image, and 
implies that the only means of escape from the 
reality of sex lies in the adoption of an ascetic 
and holy life, denying the flesh. Such dramatic 
reversals are common in dreams: Something 
turns into its opposite (as the prostitute becomes 
a saint) as if to demonstrate that by transmuta- 
tion even extreme opposites can change into 
each other. 

Henry also saw something significant in the 
saint’s coat. A coat is often a symbol of the 
protective cov er or mask (which Jung called the 
persona) that an individual presents to the 
world. It has two purposes: first, to make a 
specific impression on other people: second, to 
conceal the individual’s inner self from their 
prying eyes. The persona that Henry’s dream 
gives the saint tells us something about his atti- 
tude to his fiancee and her friend. The saint’s 
coat has the color of the friend’s jacket, which 
Henry had admired, but it also had the shape 
of his fiancee’s coat. This may imply that 
Henry’s unconscious wanted to confer the 
quality of saintliness on both women, in order 
to protect himself against their womanly attrac- 
tiveness. Also, the coat is red, which (as has 
been noted before) is traditionally the symbolic 
color of feeling and passion. It thus gives the 
saint figure a kind of eroticized spirituality — a 

quality that is frequently found in men who 
repress their own sexuality and try to rely solely 
on their “spirit” or reason. 

Such an escape from the world of' the flesh, 
however, is unnatural in a young person. In 
the first half of life, we should learn to accept 
our sexuality : It is essential to the preservation 
and continuation of our species. The dream 
seems to be reminding Henry ofjust this point. 

When the saint leaves the cave and walks 
down the road (descending from the heights 
toward the valley), he enters a second cave 
with rough-hewn benches and chairs, which 
reminds one of the early Christians’ places of 
worship and refuge from persecution. This cave 
seems to be a healing, holy place — a place of 
meditation and of the mystery of transforma- 
tion from the earthly to the heavenly, from the 
carnal to the spiritual. 

Henry is not permitted to follow the saint, 
but is turned out of the cave with all those 
present (that is, with his unconscious entities). 
Seemingly, Henry and all the others who are 
not followers of the saint are being told that 
they must live in the outside world. The dream 
seems to say that Henry must first succeed in 
outer life before he will be able to immerse him- 
self in a religious or spiritual sphere. The figure 
of the saint also seems to symbolize (in a rela- 
tively undifferentiated, anticipatory fashion) 
the Self; but Henry is not yet mature enough to 
stay in the immediate vicinity of this figure. 

Henry's touching the prostitute can 
be related to the belief in the 
magical effect of a touch: Left, 
the 1 7th century Irishman Valentine 
Greatrakes, famous for healing by 
laying on of hands. 

Right, another example of the 
persona : The clothing worn by 
rebellious British "beatnik " youths 
in the 1 960s indicated the values 
and way of life that they wanted to 
display to the outer world 

How the analysis developed 

In spite of an initial skepticism and resistance, 
Henry began to take a lively interest in the 
inner happenings of his psyche. He was obvi- 
ously impressed by his dreams. They seemed to 
compensate for his unconscious life in a mean- 
ingful way and to give him valuable insights 
into his ambivalence, his vacillation, and his 
preference for passivity. 

After a time more positive dreams appeared 
that showed that Henry was already “well on 
his way.” Two months after his analysis had 
begun he reported this dream: 

In the harbor of a little place not far from my 
home, on the shore of a lake in the neighborhood, 
locomotives and freight cars are being raised 
from the bottom of the lake where they had been 
sunk in the last war. First a large cylinder like 
a locomotive boiler is brought up. Then an enor- 
mous, rusty freight car. The whole picture pre- 

sents a horrible yet romantic sight. The recovered 
pieces have to be transported away under the 
rails and cables of the nearby railway station. 
Then the bottom of the lake changes into a green 

Here we see what a remarkable inner ad- 
vance Henry has made. Locomotives (probably 
symbols of energy and dynamism) have been 
“sunk” i.c. repressed into tin* unconscious 
but are now being brought into the light of 
day. With them are freight cars, in which all 
kinds of valuable cargo (psychic qualities) can 
be transported. Now that these “objects” have 
again become available for Henry's conscious 
life, he can begin to realize how much active 
power could be at his disposal. The transforma- 
tion of the dark lake bottom into a meadow 
underlines his potential for positive action. 

Sometimes, on Henry's “lonely journey” to- 
ward maturity, he also received help from his 

feminine side. In his 24th dream he meets a 
“humpbacked girl": 

I am on the way to a school together with an 
unknown young lady of small and dainty appear- 
ance but disfigured by a hump. Many other 
people also go into the schoolhouse. While the 
others disperse to different rooms for singing 
lessons, the girl and I sit at a little square table. 
She gives me a private singing lesson. I feel an 
impulse of pity for her and therefore kiss her on 
the mouth. I am conscious, however, that by this 
act I am unfaithful to my fiancee -even though it 
may be excusable. 

Singing is one of the immediate expressions 
of feelings. But (as we have seen) Henry is afraid 
of his feelings; he knows them only in an 
idealized adolescent form. Nevertheless, in this 
dream he is taught singing (the expression of 
feelings) at a square table. The table, with its 
lour equal sides, is a representation of the 
“fourfoldness" motif, usually a symbol of com- 
pleteness. Thus the relation between singing 

As in the painting, left (by the 
1 9th-century British artist William 
Turner), entitled Rain, Steam . and 
Speed, the locomotive is clearly an 
image of driving, dynamic energy. 

In Henry's dream (which he drew, 
below), locomotives are raised out 
of a lake — an expression of the 
release of a potential for valuable 
action that had previously been 
repressed into his unconscious. 

and the square table seems to indicate that 
Henry must integrate his “feeling" side before 
he can achieve psychic wholeness. In fact, the 
singing lesson does move his feelings, and he 
kisses the girl on her mouth. Thereby he has, in 
a sense, “espoused" her (otherwise he would 
not feel “unfaithful" ) ; he has learned to relate 
to “the woman within." 

Another dream demonstrates the part that 
this little humpbacked girl had to play in 
Henry's inner development : 

I am in an unknown boys' school. During the 
instruction period I secretly force my way into 
the house, I don't know for what purpose. I hide in 
the room behind a little square closet. The door to 
the corridor is half open. I fear being detected. An 
adult goes by without seeing me. But a little hump- 
backed girl comes in and sees me at once. She pulls 
me out of my hiding place. 

Not only does the same girl appear in both 
dreams, but both appearances take place in a 
schoolhouse. In each instance Henry must learn 
something to assist his development. Seemingly, 
he would like to satisfy his desire for know- 
ledge while remaining unnoticed and passive. 

The figure of a deformed little girl appears 
in numerous fairy tales. In such tales the ugli- 
ness of the hump usually conceals great beauty, 
which is revealed when the “right man" comes 
to free the girl from a magic spell— often by a 
kiss. The girl in Henry's dream may be a 
symbol of Henry's soul, which also has to be 
released from the “spell" that has made it ugly. 

When the humpbacked girl tries to awaken 
Henry's feelings by song, or pulls him out of 
his dark hiding place (forcing him to confront 
the light of day), she shows herself as a helpful 
guide. Henry can and must in a sense belong 
simultaneously to both his fiancee and the little' 
humpbacked girl ( to the first as a representative 
of the real, outer woman, and to the second 
as the embodiment of the inner psychic anima). 


The oracle dream 

People who rely totally on their rational think- 
ing and dismiss or repress every manifestation 
of their psychic life often have an almost inex- 
plicable inclination to superstition. They listen 
to oracles and prophecies and can be easily 
hoodwinked or influenced by magicians and 
conjurers. And because dreams compensate 
one’s outer life, the emphasis such people put 
on their intellect is offset by dreams in which 
they meet the irrational and cannot escape it. 

Henry experienced this phenomenon in the 
course of his analysis, in an impressive way. 
Four extraordinary dreams, based on such irra- 
tional themes, represented decisive milestones 
in his spiritual development. The first of these 
came about 10 weeks after the analysis began. 
As Henry reported the dream : 

Alone on an adventurous journey through South 
America, I feel, at last, the desire to return home. In 
a foreign city situated on a mountain I try to reach 
the railway station, which I instinctively suspect 
to be in the center of the town at its highest level. I 
fear I may be too late. 

Fortunately, however, a vaulted passage breaks 
through the row of houses on my right, built 
closely together as in the architecture of the 
Middle Ages, forming an impenetrable wall be- 
hind which the station is probably to be found. 
The whole scene offers a very picturesque aspect. 
I see the sunny, painted facades of the houses, the 
dark archway in whose shadowy obscurity four 
ragged figures have settled down on the pave- 
ment. With a sigh of relief, I hurry toward the 
passage — when suddenly a stranger, a trapper- 
type, appears ahead of me evidently filled with 
the same desire to catch the train. 

At our approach the four gatekeepers, who 
turn out to be Chinese, jump up to prevent our 
passage. In the ensuing fight my left leg is injured 
by the long nails on the left foot of one of the 
Chinese. An oracle has to decide now whether the 
way could be opened to us or whether our lives 
must be forfeited. 

I am the first to be dealt with. While my com- 
panion is bound and led inside, the Chinese con- 

sult the oracle by using little ivory sticks. The 
judgment goes against me, but I am given an- 
other chance. I am fettered and led aside, just 
as my companion was, and he now takes my 
place. In his presence, the oracle has to decide 
my fate for the second time. On this occasion it is 
in my favor. I am saved. 

One immediately notices the singularity and 
the exceptional meaning of the dream, its 
wealth of symbols, and its compactness. How- 
ever, it seemed as if Henry’s conscious mind 
wanted to ignore the dream . Because of his skep- 
ticism toward the products of his unconscious 
it was important not to expose the dream to 
the danger of rationalization, but rather to let 
it act on him without interference. So I re- 
frained at first from my interpretation. Instead 
I offered only one suggestion: I advised him 
to read and then to consult (as did .the Chinese 
figures in his dream) the famous Chinese oracle 
book, the I Ching. 

The I Ching , the so-called “Book of 
Changes,” is a very ancient book of wisdom; 
its roots go back to mythical times, and it comes 
to us in its present form from 3000 b.c. Accord- 
ing to Richard Wilhelm (who translated it into 
German and provided an admirable commen- 
tary), both of the main branches of Chinese 
philosophy— Taoism and Confucianism — have 
their common origin in the I Ching . The book 
is based on the hypothesis of the oneness of 
man and the surrounding cosmos, and of the 
complementary pairs of opposites Yang and 
Yin (i.e. the male and female principles). It 
consists of 64 “signs” each represented by a 
drawing made up of six lines. In these signs are 
contained all the possible combinations of Y ang 
and Yin. The straight lines are looked upon as 
male, the broken lines as female. 

Each sign describes changes in the human 
or cosmic situation, and each prescribes, in a 


pictorial language, the course of action to be 
followed at such times. The Chinese consulted 
this oracle by means that indicated which of 
the signs was relevant at a given moment. They 
did so by using 50 small sticks in a rather com- 
plicated way that yielded a given number. 
(Incidentally, Henry said that he had once read 
— probably in Jung's commentary on ‘'The 
Secret of the Golden Flower” — of a strange 
game sometimes used by the Chinese to find 
out about the future.) 

Today the more usual method of consulting 
the I Ching is to use three coins. Each throw 
of the three coins yields one line. “Heads," 
which stands for a male line, count as three; 
“tails,” a broken female line, count as two. 
The coins are thrown six times, and the num- 
bers that are produced indicate the sign or 
hexagram (i.e. the set of six lines] to be 

But what significance has such “fortune tell- 
ing” for our own time? Even those who accept 
the idea that the I Chmg is a storehouse of 
wisdom will find it hard to believe that con- 
sultation of the oracle is anything more than 
an experiment in the occult. It is indeed diffi- 

cult to grasp that more is involved, for the 
ordinary person today consciously dismisses all 
divining techniques as archaic nonsense. Yet 
they are not nonsense. As Dr. Jung has shown, 
they are based on what he calls the “principle 
ofsynchronicity” (or, more simply, meaningful 
coincidence). He has described this difficult new 
idea in his essay “Synchronicity : An Acausal 
Connecting Principle.” It is based on the 
assumption of an inner unconscious knowledge 
that links a physical event with a psychic con- 
dition, so that a certain event that appears 
“accidental” or “coincidental” can in fact be 
psychically meaningful; and its meaning is 
often symbolically indicated through dreams 
that coincide with the event. 

Several weeks after having studied the / 
Ching , Henry followed my suggestion (with 
considerable skepticism) and threw the coins. 
What he found in the book had a tremendous 
impact on him. Briefly, the oracle to which he 
referred bore several startling references to his 
dream, and to his psychological condition gen- 
erally. By a remarkable “synchronistic” coinci- 
dence, the sign that was indicated by the coin- 
pattern was called Meng — or “Youthful Folly.” 

Left, two pages of the / Ching 
showing the hexagram Meng (which 
stands for "youthful folly"). The 
top three lines of the hexagram 
symbolize a mountain, and can also 
represent a gate; the bottom three 
lines symbolize water and the abyss. 

Right, Henry'sdrawing ofthe sword 
and helmet that appeared to him in 
a fantasy, and that also related to 
a section of the / Ching — Li, "the 
clinging, fire." 

In this chapter there are several parallels to the 
dream motifs in question. According to the text 
of the I Ching , the three upper lines of this 
hexagram symbolize a mountain, and have the 
meaning of ‘'keeping still”; they can also be 
interpreted as a gate. The three lower lines sym- 
bolize water, the abyss, and the moon. All these 
symbols have occurred in Henry’s previous 
dreams. Among many other statements that 
seemed to apply to Henry was the following 
warning: “For youthful folly, it is the most 
hopeless thing to entangle itself in empty imag- 
inings. The more obstinately it clings to such 
unreal fantasies the more certainly will humilia- 
tion overtake it.” 

In this and other complex ways, the oracle 
seemed to be directly relevant to Henry’s pro- 
blem. This shook him. At first he tried to sup- 
press its effect by willpower, but he could not 
escape it or his dreams. The message of the 
/ Ching seemed to touch him deeply in spite of 
the puzzling language in which it was expressed. 
He became overpowered by the very irration- 
ality whose existence he had so long denied. 
Sometimes silent, sometimes irritated, reading 
the words that seemed to coincide so strongly 
with the symbols in his dreams, he said, “I must 
think all this over thoroughly,” and he left 
before our session was up. He canceled his next 
session by telephone, because of influenza, and 
did not reappear. I waited ("keeping still”) 
because I supposed that he might not yet have 
digested the oracle. 

A month went by. Finally Henry reappeared, 
excited and disconcerted, and told me what had 
happened in the meantime. Initially his intel- 
lect (which he had until then relied upon so 
much) had suffered a great shock — and one 
that he had at first tried to suppress. However, 
he soon had to admit that the communications 
of the oracle were pursuing him. He had in- 
tended to consult the book again, because in 
his dream the oracle had been consulted twice. 
But the text of the chapter ‘'Youthful Folly” 
expressly forbids the putting of a second ques- 
tion. For two nights Henry had tossed sleep- 
lessly in bed; but on the third a luminous 
dream image of great power had suddenly 

appeared before his eyes: a helmet with a 
sword floating in empty space. 

Henry immediately took up the I Ching 
again and opened it at random to a commen- 
tary on Chapter 30, where (to his great sur- 
prise) he read the following passage: “The 
clinging is fire, it means coats of mail, helmets, 
it means lances and weapons.” Now he felt 
that he understood why a second intentional 
consulting of the oracle was forbidden. For in 
his dream the ego was excluded from the 
second question; it was the trapper who had 
to consult the oracle the second time. In the 
same way, it was Henry’s semi-unconscious 
action that had unintentionally asked the 
second question of the I Ching by opening the 
book at random and coming upon a symbol 
that coincided with his nocturnal vision. 

Henry was clearly so deeply stirred that it 
seemed time to try to interpret the dream that 
had sparked the transformation. In view of the 
events of the dream, it was obvious that the 
dream-elements should be interpreted as con- 
tents of Henry’s inner personality and the six 
dream-figures as personification of his psychic 
qualities. Such dreams are relatively rare, but 
when they do occur their after-effects are all 
the more powerful. That is why they could 
be called “dreams of transformation.” 

With dreams of such pictorial power, the 
dreamer seldom has more than a few personal 
associations. All Henry could offer was that he 
had recently tried for a job in Chile, and had 
been refused because they would not employ 
unmarried men. He also knew that some 
Chinese let the nails of their left hand grow 
as a sign that instead of working they have 
given themselves over to meditation. 

Henry's failure (to get a job in South 
America) was presented to him in the dream. 
In it he is transported into a hot southern 

Right, a parallel to the gatekeepers 
of Henry's "oracle dream": one of 
a pair of sculptures (1 Oth -1 3th 
century) that guard the entrance 
to China's Mai-chi-san caves. 


world —a world that, in contrast to Europe, he 
would call primitive, uninhibited, and sensual. 
It represents an excellent symbolic picture of 
the realm of the unconscious. 

This realm was the opposite of the cultivated 
intellect and Swiss puritanism that ruled Hen- 
ry's conscious mind. It was, in fact, his natural 
‘‘shadow land," for which he had longed; but 
after a while he did not seem to feel too com- 
fortable there. From the chthonic, dark, 
maternal powers (symbolized by South Ameri- 
ca) he is drawn back in the dream to the light, 
personal mother and to his fiancee. He sud- 
denly realizes how far he has gone away from 
them ; he finds himself alone in a “foreign city." 

This increase in consciousness is symbolized 
in the dream as a “higher level"; the city was 
built on a mountain. So Henry “climbed up" 
to a greater consciousness in the “shadow 
land"; from there he hoped “to find his way 
home." This problem of ascending a mountain 
had already been put to him in his initial 

dream. And, as in the dream of the saint and 
the prostitute, or in many mythological tales, a 
mountain often symbolizes a place of revela- 
tion, where transformation and change may 
take place. 

The “city on the mountain" is also a well- 
known archetypal symbol that appears in the 
history of our culture in many variations. The 
city, corresponding in its ground plan to a man- 
dala, represents that “region of the soul" in the 
middle of which the Self (the psyche's inner- 
most center and totality) has its abode. 

Surprisingly, the seat of the Self is repre- 
sented in Henry's dream as a traffic center of 
the human collective— a railway station. This 
may be because the Self (if the dreamer is 
young and has a relatively low level of spiritual 
development) is usually symbolized by an object 
from the realm of his personal experience — 
often a banal object, which compensates the 
dreamer's high aspirations. Only in the mature 
person acquainted with the images of his soul 
is the Self realized in a symbol that corresponds 
to its unique v alue. 

Even though Henry does not actually know 
where the station is, he nevertheless supposes it 
to be in the center of the city, on its highest 
point. Here, as in earlier dreams, he receives 
help from his unconscious. Henry's conscious 
mind was identified with his profession as an 
engineer, so he would also like his inner world 
to relate to rational products of civilization, like 
a railway station. The dream, however, rejects 
this attitude and indicates a completely dif- 
ferent way. 

The way leads “under" and through a dark 
arch. An arched gateway is also a symbol for a 
threshold, a place where dangers lurk, a place 
that at the same time separates and unites. 
Instead of the railway station that Henry was 
looking for, which was to connect uncivilized 
South America with Europe, Henry finds him- 
self before a dark arched gateway where four 
ragged Chinese, stretched on the ground, block 
the passage. The dream makes no distinction 
between them, so they may be seen as lour still 
undifferentiated aspects of a male totality. (The 
number four, a symbol of wholeness and corn- 


pleteness, represents an archetype that Dr. Jung 
has discussed at length in his writings.) 

The Chinese thus represent unconscious male 
psychic parts of Henry that he cannot pass, be- 
cause the “way to the Self” (i.e. to the psychic 
center) is barred by them and must still be 
opened to him. Until this issue has been settled 
he cannot continue his journey. 

Still unaware of the impending danger, 
Henry hurries to the gateway, expecting at last 
to reach the station. But on his way he meets 
his “shadow” — his unlived, primitive side, 
which appears in the guise of an earthy, rough 
trapper. The appearance of this figure probably 
means that Henry’s introverted ego has been 
joined by his extra verted (compensatory) side, 
which represents his repressed emotional and 
irrational traits. This shadow figure pushes itself' 
past the conscious ego into the foreground, and, 
because it personifies the activity and autonomy 
of unconscious qualities, it becomes the proper 
carrier of fate, through whom everything 

The dream moves toward its climax. During 
the fight between Henry, the trapper, and the 
four ragged Chinese, Henry’s left leg is 
scratched by the long nails on the left foot of 
one of the four. (Here, it seems, the European 
character of Henry’s conscious ego has collided 
with a personification of the ancient wisdom of 
the East, with the extreme opposite of his ego. 
The Chinese come from an entirely different 
psychic continent, from an “other side” that is 

still quite unknown to Henry and that seems 
dangerous to him.) 

The Chinese can also be said to stand for the 
“yellow earth”; for the Chinese people are 
related to the earth as few people are. And it 
is just this earthy, chthonic quality that Henry 
had to accept. The unconscious male totality 
of his psyche, which he met in his dream, had 
a chthonic material aspect that his intellectual 
conscious side lacked. Thus the fact -that he 
recognized the four ragged figures as Chinese 
shows that Henry had gained an increase of 
inner awareness concerning the nature of his 

Henry had heard that the Chinese sometimes 
let the nails of their left hand grow long. But 
in the dream the long nails are on the left foot; 
they are, so to speak, claws. This may indicate 
that the Chinese have a point of view so dif- 
ferent from Henry’s that it injures him. As we 

Below, a drawing by a patient under 
analysis depicts a black monster 
(on the red or "feeling" side) and a 
Madonna-like woman (on the blue 
or spiritual side). This was Henry's 
position: over-emphasis on purity, 
chastity, etc. and fear of the 
irrational unconscious. (But note 
that the green, mandala-like flower 
acts as a link between the opposing 
sides.) Below left, another patient's 
painting depicting his insomnia — 
caused by his repressing too 
strongly his passionate, red, 
instinctual drives (which may 
overwhelm his consciousness) 
by a black wall" of anxiety 
and depression. 

know, Henry’s conscious attitude toward the 
chthonic and feminine, toward the material 
depths of his nature, was most uncertain and 
ambivalent. This attitude, symbolized by his 
“left leg” (the point of view or “standpoint” of 
his feminine, unconscious side of which he is 
still afraid), was harmed by the Chinese, 

This “injury,” however, did not itself bring 
about a change in Henry, Every transforma- 
tion demands as its precondition “the ending of 
a world” — the collapse of an old philosophy of 
life. As Dr. Henderson has pointed out earlier 
in this book, at ceremonies of initiation a youth 
must suffer a symbolic death before he can be 
reborn as a man and be taken into the tribe 
as a full member. Thus the scientific, logical 
attitude of the engineer must collapse to make 
room for a new attitude. 

In the psyche of an engineer, everything 
“irrational” may be repressed, and therefore 
often reveals itself in the dramatic paradoxes of 
the dream-world. Thus the irrational appeared 
in Henry’s dream as an “oracle game” of for- 
eign origin, with a fearful and inexplicable 
power to decide human destinies. Henry’s 
ratirnal ego had no alternative but to surrender 
unconditionally in a real sacrificium intellectus. 

Yet the conscious mind of such an inexperi- 
enced, immature person as Henry is not suffi- 
ciently prepared for such an act. He loses the 
turn of fortune, and his life is forfeit. He is 
caught, unable to go on in his accustomed way 
or to return home — to escape his adult respon- 
sibilities. (It was this insight for which Henry 
had to be prepared by this “great dream.”) 

Next, Henry’s conscious, civilized ego is 
bound and put aside while the primitive trap- 
per is allowed to take his place and to consult 
the oracle. Henry’s life depends on the result. 
But when the ego is imprisoned in isolation, 
those contents of the unconscious that are per- 
sonified in the shadow-figure may bring help 
and solution. This becomes possible when one 
recognizes the existence of such contents and 
has experienced their power. They can then 
become our consciously accepted constant com- 
panions. Because the trapper (his shadow) wins 
the game in his place, Henry is saved. 

Facing the irrational 

Henry’s subsequent behavior clearly showed 
that the dream (and the fact that his dreams 
and the oracle book of the I Ching had brought 
him to face deep and irrational powers within 
himself) had a very deep effect on him. From 
then on he listened eagerly to the communica- 
tions of his unconscious, and the analysis took 
on a more and more agitated character. The 
tension that until then had threatened the 
depths of his psyche with disruption came to 
the surface. Nevertheless, he courageously held 
to the growing hope that a satisfactory conclu- 
sion would be reached. 

Barely two weeks after the oracle dream (but 
before it was discussed and interpreted), Henry 
had another dream in which he was once again 
confronted with the disturbing problem of the 
irrational : 

Alone in my room. A lot of disgusting black 
beetles crawl out of a hole and spread out over my 
drawing table. I try to drive them back into their 
hole by means of some sort of magic. I am success- 
ful in this except for four or five beetles, which 
leave my table again and spread out into the 
whole room. I give up the idea of following them 
further; they are no longer so disgusting to me. I 
set fire to the hiding place. A tall column of flame 
rises up. I fear my room might catch fire, but this 
fear is unfounded. 

By this time, Henry had become relatively 
skilful in the interpretation of his dreams, so he 
tried to give this dream an explanation of his 
own. He said : “The beetles are my dark quali- 
ties. They were awakened by the analysis and 
come up now to the surface. There is a danger 
that they may overflow my professional work 
(symbolized by the drawing table). Yet I did 
not dare to crush the beetles, which reminded 
me of a kind of black scarab, with my hand as 
I first intended, and therefore had to use 
'magic.’ In setting fire to their hiding place I, 


so to speak, call for the collaboration of some- 
thing divine, as the upshooting column of flame 
makes me think of the fire that I associate with 
the Ark of the Covenant. ” 

To go deeper into the symbolism of' the 
dream, we must first of' all note that these 
beetles are black, which is the color of darkness, 
depression, and death. In the dream, Henry is 
“alone" in his room a situation that can lead 
to introversion and corresponding states of 
gloom. In mythology, scarab beetles often 
appear golden; in Egypt they were sacred 
animals symbolizing the sun. But if they are 
black, they symbolize the opposite side of the 
sun - something devilish. Therefore, Henry's 
instinct is quite correct in wanting to fight the 
beetles with magic. 

Though four or five of the beetles remain 
alive, the decrease in the number of beetles is 
enough to free Henry from his fear and disgust. 
He then tries to destroy their breeding ground 
by fire. This is a positive action, because fire 
can symbolically lead to transformation and re- 
birth fas, for instance, it does in the ancient 
myth of the phoenix ). 

In his waking life, Henry now seemed full of 
enterprising spirit, but apparently he had not 
yet learned to use it to the right effect. There- 
fore, I want to consider another, later dream 
that throws an even clearer light on his pro- 
blem. This dream presents in symbolic language 
Henry's fear of a responsible relationship with 
a woman and his tendency to withdraw from 
the feeling side of life: 

An old man is breathing his last. He is sur- 
rounded by his relatives, and I am among them. 
More and more people gather in the large room, 
each one characterizing himself' through precise 
statements. There are a good 40 persons present. 
The old man groans and mutters about “unlived 
life." His daughter, who wants to make his con- 
fession easier, asks him in what sense “unlived" 
is to be understood; whether cultural or moral. 
The old man will not answer. His daughter sends 
me to a small adjoining room where I am to find 
the answer by telling a fortune with cards. The 
“nine" that I turn up will give the answer, accord- 
ing to the color. 

Above, an Egyptian relief (c 1 300 
b c.) shows a scarab beetle and the 
god Amon within the circle of the 
sun. In Egypt the golden scarab was 
itself a symbol of the sun Below, 
a quite different kind of insect, 
more like the "devilish'' beetles 
of Henry's dream: an engraving by 
the 1 9th-century artist James Ensor 
of humans with dark, repulsive 
insect bodies. 



I expect to turn up a nine at the very begin- 
ning, but at first I turn up various kings and 
queens. I am disappointed. Now I turn up nothing 
but scraps of paper that don’t belong to the game 
at all. Finally, I discover that there are no more 
cards in the deck but only envelopes and other 
pieces of paper. Together with my sister, who is 
also present, I look everywhere for the cards. 
Finally I discover one under a textbook or a note- 
book. It is nine, a nine of spades. It seems to me 
that this can only mean one thing: that it was 
moral chains that prevented the old man from 
diving his life.” 

The essential message of this strange dream 
was to warn Henry what awaited him if he 
failed to “five his life. ' ' The “old man" prob- 
ably represents the dying “ruling principle” - 
the principle that rules Henry's consciousness, 
but whose nature is unknown to him. The 40 
people present symbolize the totality of Henry's 
psychic traits (40 is a number of totality, an 
elevated form of the number four). That the 
old man is dying could be a sign that part of 
Henry’s male personality is on the verge of a 
final transformation. 

The daughter’s query about the possible 
cause of death is the unavoidable and decisive 
question. There seems to be an implication that 
the old man’s “morality” has prevented him 
from living out his natural feelings and drives. 
Yet the dying man himself is silent. Therefore 
his daughter (the personification of the mediat- 
ing feminine principle, the anima) has to be- 
come active. 

She sends Henry to discover the answer from 
the fortune-telling cards— the answer that will 
be given by the color of the first nine turned up. 
The fortune telling has to take place in an un- 
used, remote room (revealing how far away 
such a happening is from Henry’s conscious 

He is disappointed when at first he uncovers 
only kings and queens (perhaps collective 
images of his youthful veneration for power 
and wealth). This disappointment becomes in- 
tense when the picture-cards run out, for this 
shows that the symbols of the inner world have 
also been exhausted. Only “scraps of paper” 

are left, without any images. Thus the source 
of pictures dries up in the dream. Henry then 
has to accept the help of his feminine side (this 
time represented by his sister) to find the last 
card. Together with her, he finally finds a card 
— the nine of spades. It is this card that must 
serve to indicate by its color what the phrase 
“unlived life” meant in the dream. And it is 
significant that the card is hidden under a text- 
book or notebook - which probably represents 
the arid intellectual formulas of Henry’s tech- 
nical interests. 

The nine has been a “magic number” for 
centuries. According to the traditional symbol- 
ism of numbers, it represents the perfect form 
of the perfected Trinity in its threefold eleva- 
tion. And there arc endless other meanings 
associated with the number nine in various ages 
and cultures. The color of the nine of spades is 
the color of death and o( lifelessncss. Also, the 
“spade” image strongly brings to mind the form 
of a leaf, and therefore its blackness emphasizes 
that instead of being green, vital, and natural 
it is now dead. Furthermore, the word “spade” 
derives from the Italian spada , which means 
“sword” or “spear.” Such weapons often sym- 
bolize the penetrating, “cutting” function of 
the intellect. 

Thus the dream makes it clear that it was 
the “moral bonds” (rather than “cultural”) that 
did not allow the old man to “live his life.” In 
Henry’s case, these “bonds” probably were his 
fear of surrendering fully to life, of accepting 
responsibilities to a woman and thereby becom- 
ing "unfaithful” to his mother. The dream has 
declared that the “unlived life” is an illness of 
which one can die. 

Henry could no longer disregard the message 
of this dream. He realized that one needs some- 
thing more than reason as a helpful compass in 
the entanglements of life; it is necessary to seek 
the guidance of the unconscious powers that 
emerge as symbols out of the depths of the 
psyche. With this recognition, the goal of this 
part of his analysis was reached. He now knew 
that he was finally expelled from the paradise 
of an uncommitted life and that he could never 
return to it. 


The final dream 

A further dream came to confirm irrevocably 
the insights Henry had gained. After some un- 
important short dreams that concerned his 
everyday life, the last dream (the 50th in the 
series) appeared with all the wealth of symbols 
that characterizes the so-called “great dreams.” 

Above, a phoenix reborn in flames 
(from a medieval Arabic manuscript) 
—a well-known example of the 
motif of death and rebirth by fire. 
Below, a woodcut by the 1 9th- 
century French artist Grandville 
reflects some of the symbolic value 
of playing cards. The Spades suit, 
for instance, in French Piques, is 
symbolically linked with the 
"penetrating" intellect and, by its 
black color, with death. 

Four of us form a friendly group, and we have 
the following experiences: Evening : We are sitting 
at a long, raw-lumber table and drinking out of 
each of three different vessels: from a liqueur 
glass, a clear, yellow, sweet liqueur; from a wine 
glass, dark red Campari; from a large, classically 
shaped vessel, tea. In addition to us there is also 
a girl of reserved, delicate nature. She pours her 
liqueur into the tea. 

Night: We have returned from a big drinking 
bout. One of us is the President de la Republique 
Franchise. We are in his palace. Walking out onto 
the balcony we perceive him beneath us in the 
snowy street as he, in his drunken condition, 
urinates against a mound of snow. His bladder 
content seems to be inexhaustible. Now he even 
runs after an old spinster who carries in her arms 
a child wrapped in a brown blanket. He sprays 
the child with his urine. The spinster feels the 
moisture but ascribes it to the child. She hurries 
away with long steps. 

Morning : Through the street, which glistens in 
the winter sun, goes a Negro: a gorgeous figure, 
completely naked. He walks toward the east, 
toward Berne (that is, the Swiss capital). We are 
in French Switzerland. We decide to go to pay 
him a visit. 

Noon: After a long automobile trip through a 
lonely snowy region we come to a city, and into 
a dark house where the Negro is said to have put up. 
We are very much afraid that he might be frozen 
to death. However, his servant, who is just as 
dark, receives us. Negro and servant are mute. 
We look into the rusksacks we have brought 
with us, to see what each could give the Negro as a 
gift. It must be some sort of object characteristic of 
civilization. I am the first to make up my mind and 
I take a package of matches from the floor and 
offer it to the Negro with deference. After all have 
presented their gifts, we join with the Negro in a 
happy feast, a joyous revel. 

Even at first glance the dream with its four 
parts makes an unusual impression. It encom- 
passes a whole day and moves toward the 
“right,” in the direction of growing conscious- 
ness. The movement starts with the evening, 
goes over into the night, and ends at noon, 
when the sun is at its zenith. Thus the cycle of 
the “day” appears as a totality pattern. 

In this dream the four friends seem to sym- 
bolize the unfolding masculinity of Henry’s 
psyche, and their progress through the four 
“acts” of the dream has a geometric pattern 
that reminds one of the essential construction 
of the mandala. As they first came from the 
east, then from the west, moving on toward 
the “capital” of Switzerland (i.e. the center), 
they seem to describe a pattern that tries to 
unite the opposites in a center. And this point is 
underlined by the movement in time — the de- 
scent into the night of the unconsciousness, fol- 
lowing the sun’s circuit, which is followed by 
an ascent to the bright zenith of consciousness. 

The dream begins in the evening, a time 
when the threshold of consciousness is lowered 
and the impulses and images of the unconscious 
can pass across it. In such a condition (when 
the feminine side of man is most easily evoked) 
it is natural to find that a female figure joins 
the four friends. She is the anima figure that 
belongs to them all (“reserved and delicate,” 
reminding Henry of his sister) and connects 
them all to each other. On the table stand three 
vessels of different character, which by their 
concave form accentuate the receptiveness that 
is symbolic of the feminine. The fact that these 
vessels are used by all present indicates a 
mutual and close relatedness among them. The 
vessels differ in form (liqueur glass, wine glass, 
and a classically formed container) and in the 
color of their contents. The opposites into 
which these fluids divide — sweet and bitter, red 
and yellow, intoxicating and sobering— are all 
intermingled, through being consumed by each 

of the five persons present, who sink into an 
unconscious communion. 

The girl seems to be the secret agent, the 
catalyst who precipitates events (for it is the 
role of the anima to lead a man into his un 
conscious, and thus to force him to deeper 
recollection and increased consciousness). It is 
almost as though with the mixing of liqueur 
and tea the party would approach its climax. 

The second part of the dream tells us more 
of the happenings of this “night.” The four 
friends suddenly find themselves in Paris 
(which, for the Swiss, represents the town of 
sensuality, of uninhibited joy and love). Here 
a certain differentiation of the four takes place, 
especially between the ego in the dream (which 
is to a great extent identified with the leading 
thinking function) and the “President de la Re- 
publique,” who represents the undeveloped 
and unconscious feeling function. 

The ego (Henry and two friends, who may 
be considered as representing his semi-conscious 
functions) looks down from the height of a 
balcony on the President, whose characteristics 
are exactly what one would expect to find in 
the undifferentiated side of the psyche. He is 
unstable, and has abandoned himself to his 
instincts. He urinates on the street in a drunken 
state; he is unconscious of himself, like a person 
outside civilization, following only his natural 
animal urges. Thus the President symbolizes a 
great contrast to the consciously accepted stan- 
dards of a good middle-class Swiss scientist. 
Only in the darkest night of the unconscious 
could this side of Henry reveal itself. 

However, the President-figure also has a very 
positive aspect. His urine (which could be the 
symbol of a stream of psychic libido) seems in- 
exhaustible. It gives evidence of abundance, of 
creative and vital strength, (Primitives, for in- 
stance, regard everything coming from the body 

hair, excrement, urine, or saliva — as creative, 
as having magical powers.) This unpleasant 


President-image, therefore, could also be a sign 
of the power and plenty that often adheres to 
the shadow side of the ego. Not only does he 
urinate without embarrassment, but he runs 
after an old woman who is holding a child. 

This “old spinster'’ is in a way the opposite 
or complement of the shy, fragile anima of the 
first part of the dream. She is still a virgin, even 
though old and seemingly a mother; in fact, 
Henry associated her to the archetypal image 
of Mary with the child Jesus. But the fact that 
the baby is wrapped in a brown (earth-colored ) 
blanket makes it seem to be the chthonic, earth- 
bound counter-image of the Savior rather than 
a heavenly child. The President, who sprinkles 
the child with his urine, seems to perform a 
travesty of baptism. If we take the child as a 
symbol of a potentiality within Henry that is 
still infantile, then it could receive strength 
through this ritual. But the dream says nothing 
more; the woman hurries away with the child. 

This scene marks the turning point of the 
dream. It is morning again. Everything that 
was dark, black, primitive, and powerful in the 
last episode has been gathered together and 
symbolized by a magnificent Negro, who 
appears naked — i.e. real and true. 

Just as darkness and bright morning — or hot 
urine and cold snow— are opposites, so now the 
black man and the white landscape form a 
sharp antithesis. The four friends now must 
orient themselves within these new dimensions. 

A drinking vessel from ancient 
Peru, in the shape of a woman, 
reflects the feminine symbolism 
of such containers, which occurs 
in Henrysfinal dream 

Their position has changed; the way that led 
through Paris has brought them unexpectedly 
into French Switzerland (where Henry's fian- 
cee came from). A transformation has taken 
place in Henry during the earlier phase, when 
he was overpowered by unconscious contents of 
his psyche. Now, for the last time, he can begin 
to find his way forward from a place that w'as 
his fiancee's home (showing that he accepts her 
psychological background ). 

At the beginning he went from eastern 
Switzerland to Paris (from the east to the west, 
where the way leads into darkness, the uncon- 
sciousness ' . He has now T made a turn of 180 , 
toward the rising sun and the ever-increasing 
clarity of consciousness. This way points to the 
middle of Switzerland, to its capital, Berne, and 
symbolizes Henry's striving toward a center 
that would unite the opposites within him. 

The Negro is for some people the archetypal 
image of “the dark primal creature" and thus 
a personification of certain contents of.the un- 
conscious. Perhaps this is one reason why the 
Negro is so often rejected and feared by people 
of the white race. In him the white man sees 
his living counterpart, his hidden, dark side 
brought before his eyes. (This is just w hat most 
people try to avoid; they want to cut it off and 
repress it.) White men project onto the Negro 
the primitive drives, the archaic powers, the 
uncontrolled instincts that they do not want to 
admit in themselves, of w hich they are uncon- 
scious. and that they therefore designate as the 
corresponding qualities of other people. 

For a young man of Henry's age the Negro 
may stand on the one hand for the sum of all 
dark traits repressed into unconsciousness; on 
the other hand, he may represent the sum of 
his primitive, masculine strength and poten- 
tialities, his emotional and physical power. That 
Henry and his friends intend consciously to 
confront the Negro signifies therefore a decisive 
step forward on the way to manhood. 

In the meantime it has become noon, when 
the sun is at its highest, and consciousness has 
reached its greatest clarity. We might say that 
Henry’s ego has continued to become more and 
more compact, that he has enhanced his ca pa- 


city consciously to make decisions. It is still 
winter, which may indicate a lack of feeling 
and warmth in Henry; his psychic landscape is 
still wintry and apparently intellectually very 
cold. The four friends are afraid that the naked 
Negro (being accustomed to a warm climate) 
might be frozen. But their fear turns out to be 
groundless, for after a long drive through de- 
serted snow-covered country they stop in a 
strange city and enter a dark house. This drive 
and the desolate country is symbolic of the long 
and wearisome search for self-development. 

A further complication awaits the four 
friends here. The Negro and his servant are 
mute. Therefore it is not possible to make 
verbal contact with them ; the four friends must 
seek other means to get in touch with the 
Negro. They cannot use intellectual means 
(words) but rather a feeling gesture to approach 
him. They offer him a present as one gives an 
offering to the gods, to win their interest and 
their affection. And it has to be an object of 
our civilization, belonging to the values of the 
intellectual white man. Again a sacrificium 
intelleclus is demanded to win the favor of the 
Negro, who represents nature and instinct. 

Henry is the first to make up his mind what 
to do. This is natural, since he is the bearer of 
the ego, whose proud consciousness (or hybris) 
has to be humbled. He picks up a box of 
matches from the floor and presents it “with 
deference” to the Negro. At first glance it may 
seem absurd that a small object lying on the 
floor and probably thrown away should be the 
proper gift, but this was the right choice. 
Matches are stored and controlled fire, a means 
by which a flame can be lit and put out at any 
time. Fire and flame symbolize warmth and 
love, feeling and passion; they are qualities of 
the heart, found wherever human beings exist. 

In giving the Negro such a present, Henry 
symbolically combines a highly developed civil- 
ized product of his conscious ego with the 
center of his own primitivity and male strength, 
symbolized by the Negro. In this way, Henry 
can come into the full possession of his male 
sides, with which his ego must remain in con- 
stant touch from now on. 

This was the result. The six male persons— 
the four friends, the Negro, and his servant 
are now together in a gay spirit at a communal 
meal. It is clear that here Henry’s masculine 
totality has been rounded out. His ego seems 
to have found the security it needs to enable 
him consciously and freely to submit to the 
greater archetypal personality within himself, 
which foreshadows the emergence of the Self. 

What happened in the dream had its parallel 
also in Henry’s waking life. Now he was sure 
of himself. Deciding quickly, he became serious 
about his engagement. Exactly nine months 
after his analysis had begun, he married in a 
little church of western Switzerland; and he 
left the following day with his young wife for 
Canada to take up an appointment that he had 
received during the decisive weeks of his last 
dreams. Since then he has been living an active, 
creative life as the head of a little family and 
holds an executive position in a great industry. 

Henry’s case reveals, so to speak, an acceler- 
ated maturation to an independent and respon- 
sible manliness. It represents an initiation into 
the reality of outer life, a strengthening of the 
ego and of his masculinity, and with this a com- 
pletion of the first half of the individuation 
process. The second half — which is the estab- 
lishment of a right relationship between the ego 
and the Self — still lies ahead of Henry, in the 
second half of his life. 

Not every case runs such a successful and 
stirring course, and not every case can be 
handled in a similar way. On the contrary, 
every case is different. Not only do the young 
and the old, or the man and the woman, call 
for different treatment; so does every indi- 
vidual in all these categories. Even the same 
symbols require different interpretation in each 
case. I have selected this one because it repre- 
sents an especially impressive example of the 
autonomy of the unconscious processes and 
shows by its abundance of images the untiring 
symbol-creating power of the psychic back- 
ground. It proves that the self-regulating action 
of the psyche (when not disturbed by too much 
rational explanation or dissection) can support 
the development process of the soul. 

3 ° i 

In Psychology and Alchemy Dr. Jung 
discusses a sequence of over 1 000 
dreams produced by one man. The 
sequence revealed a striking number 
and variety of representations of the 
mandala motif —which is so often 
linked with the realization of the 
Self (see pp 21 3 ff). These pages 
present a few examples of mandala 
imagery from the dreams, to indicate 
the vastly different forms in which 
this archetype can manifest itseif, 
even in one individual’s unconscious. 
The interpretative meanings offered 
here may, because of their brevity, 
seem to be arbitrary assertions. In 
practice no Jungian would produce 
an interpretation of a dream without 
knowledge of the dreamer and careful 
study of his associations to the 
dream. These interpretative statements 
must be taken as hints toward 
possible meanings — nothing more. 

Left: In the dream the anima accuses 
the man of being inattentive to her. 

A clock says five minutes to the hour. 
The man is being "pestered'' by his 
unconscious; the tension thus 
created is heightened by the clock, 
by waiting for something to happen 
in five minutes. 

Below: A skull (which the man tries 
in vain to kick away) becomes a 
red ball, then a woman's head. 

Here the man may try to reject the 
unconscious (kicking the skull), 
but it asserts itself by means of the 
ball (perhaps alluding to the sun) 
and the anima figure. 

Left: In part of a dream, a prince 
places a diamond ring on the fourth 
finger of the dreamer's left hand. 

The ring, worn like a wedding ring, 
indicates that the dreamer has 
taken a ''vow'' to the Self. 

Below left: A veiled woman uncovers 
her face, which shines like the sun. 
The image implies an illumination 
of the unconscious (involving the 
anima) — quite different from 
conscious elucidation. 

Below: From a transparent sphere 
containing small spheres, a green 
plant grows. The sphere symbolizes 
unity; the plant, life and growth. 

Below: Troops, no longer preparing 
for war, form an eight rayed star 
and rotate to the left. This image 
perhaps indicates that some inner 
conflict has given way to harmony. 

Conclusion: M.-L. von Franz 
Science and the unconscious 

In the preceding chapters C. G. Jung and some 
of his associates have tried to make clear the 
role played by the symbol-creating function in 
man’s unconscious psyche and to point out some 
fields of application in this newly discovered 
area of life. We are still far from understanding 
the unconscious or the archetypes — those dyna- 
mic nuclei of the psyche — in all their implica- 
tions. All we can see now is that the archetypes 
have an enormous impact on the individual, 
forming his emotions and his ethical and mental 
outlook, influencing his relationships with 
others, and thus affecting his whole destiny. We 
can also see that the arrangement of archetypal 
symbols follows a pattern of wholeness in the 
individual, and that an appropriate understand- 
ing of the symbols can have a healing effect. 
And we can see that the archetypes can act as 
creative or destructive forces in our mind: 
creative when they inspire new ideas, destruc- 
tive when these same ideas stiffen into con- 
scious prej udices that inhibit further discoveries. 

J ung has shown in his chapter how subtle and 
differentiated all attempts at interpretation must 
be, in order not to weaken the specific individual 
and cultural values of archetypal ideas and sym- 
bols by leveling them out- -i.c. by giving them 
a stereotyped, intellectually formulated mean- 
ing. J ung himsclfdedicated his entire life to such 
investigations and interpretative work; natur- 
ally this book sketches only an infinitesimal part 
of his vast contribution to this new field of 
psychological discovery. He was a pioneer and 
remained fully aware that an enormous number 
of further questions remained unanswered and 
call for further investigation. This is why his 
concepts and hypotheses are conceived on as 
wide a basis as possible (without making them 
too vague and all-embracing) and why his views 
form a so-called “open system” that does not 
close the door against possible new discoveries. 

To j ung, his concepts were mere tools or 
heuristic hypotheses that might help us to ex- 

plore the vast new area of reality opened up by 
the discovery of the unconscious- a discovery 
that has not merely widened our whole view of 
the world but has in fact doubled it. We must 
always ask now whether a mental phenomenon 
is conscious or unconscious and, also, whether a 
“real” outer phenomenon is perceived by con- 
scious or unconscious means. 

The powerful forces of the unconscious most 
certainly appear not only in clinical material 
but also in the mythological, religious, artistic, 
and all the other cultural activities by which 
man expresses himself. Obviously, if all men 
have common inherited patterns of emotional 
and mental behavior (which Jung called the 
archetypes), it is only to be expected that we 
shall find their products (symbolic fantasies, 
thoughts, and actions) in practically every field 
of human activity. 

Important modern investigations of many of 
these fields have been deeply influenced by 
Jung’s work. For instance, this influence can be 
seen in the study of literature, in such books as 
J. B. Priestley’s Literature and Western Man , 
Gottfried Diener’s Fausts Weg zu Helena , or 
James Kirsch’s Shakespeare's Hamlet. Simi- 
larly, Jungian psychology has contributed to the 
study of art, as in the writings of Herbert Read 
or of Aniela Jaffe, Erich Neumann’s examina- 
tion of Henry Moore, or Michael Tippett’s 
studies in music. Arnold Toynbee’s work on his- 
tory and Paul Radin’s on anthropology have 
benefited from Jung’s teachings, as have the 
contributions to sinology made by Richard Wil- 
helm, Enwin Rousselle, and Manfred Porkert. 

Sound waves, given off by a 
vibrating steel disk and made 
visible in a photograph, produce 
a strikingly mandala-like pattern. 


Of course, this does not mean that the special 
features of art and literature (including their 
interpretations) can be understood only from 
their archetypal foundation. These fields all 
have their own laws of activity; like all really 
creative achievements, they cannot ultimately 
be rationally explained. But within their areas of 
action one can recognize the archetypal patterns 
as a dynamic background activity. And one can 
often decipher in them (as in dreams) the mes- 
sage of some seemingly purposive, evolutionary 
tendency of the unconscious. 

The fruitfulness of Jung’s ideas is more imme- 
diately understandable within the area of the 
cultural activities of man: Obviously, if the 
archetypes determine our mental behavior, they 
must appear in all these fields. But, unexpect- 
edly, Jung’s concepts have also opened up new 
ways of looking at things in the realm of the 
natural sciences as well — for instance, in 

The physicist Wolfgang Pauli has pointed out 
that, due to new discoveries, our idea of the 
evolution of life requires a revision that might 
take into account an area of interrelation be- 
tween the unconscious psyche and biological 
processes. Until recently it was assumed that the 
mutation of species happened at random and 
that a selection took place by means of which 
the “meaningful,” well-adapted varieties sur- 
vived, and the others disappeared. But modern 
evolutionists have pointed out that the selections 
of such mutations by pure chance would have 
taken much longer than the known age of our 
planet allows. 

Jung’s concept of synchronicity may be help- 
ful here, for it could throw light upon the occur- 
rence of certain rare “border-phenomena,” or 
exceptional events; thus it might explain how 
“meaningful” adaptations and mutations could 
happen in less time than that required by en- 
tirely random mutations. Today we know of 
many instances in which meaningful “chance” 
events have occurred when an archetype is acti- 
vated. For example, the history of science con- 
tains many cases of simultaneous invention or 
discovery. One of the most famous of such cases 
involved Darwin and his theory of the origin of 

species: Darwin had developed the theory in a 
lengthy essay, and in 1844 was busy expanding 
this into a major treatise. 

While he was at work on this project he 
received a manuscript from a young biologist, 
unknown to Darwin, named A. R. Wallace. 
The manuscript was a shorter but otherwise 
parallel exposition of Darwin’s theory. At the 
time Wallace was in the Molucca Islands of the 
Malay Archipelago. He knew of Darwin as a 
naturalist, but had not the slightest idea of the 
kind of theoretical work on which Darwin was 
at the time engaged. 

In each case a creative scientist had inde- 
pendently arrived at a hypothesis that was to 
change the entire development of the science. 
And each had initially conceived of the hypo- 
thesis in an intuitive “flash” (later backed up 
by documentary evidence) . The archetypes thus 
seem to appear as the agents, so to speak, of a 
creatio continua. (What Jung calls synchronistic 
events are in fact something like “acts of crea- 
tion in time.”) 

Similar “meaningful coincidences” can be 
said to occur when there is a vital necessity for 
an individual to know about, say, a relative’s 
death, or some lost possession. In a great many 
cases such information has been revealed by 
means of extrasensory perception. This seems 
to suggest that abnormal random phenomena 
may occur when a vital need or urge is aroused ; 
and this in turn might explain why a species of 
animals, under great pressure or in great need, 
could produce “meaningful” (but acausal ) 
changes in its outer material structure. 

But the most promising field for future studies 
seems (as Jung saw it) to have unexpectedly 
opened up in connection with the complex field 
of microphysics. At first sight, it seems most un- 
likely that we should find a relationship between 
psychology and microphysics. The interrelation 
of these sciences is worth some explanation. 

The most obvious aspect of such a connection 
lies in the fact that most of the basic concepts 
of physics (such as space, time, matter, energy, 
continuum or field, particle, etc.) were origin- 
ally intuitive, semi-mythological, archetypal 
ideas of the old Greek philosophers — ideas that 


then slowly evolved and became more accurate 
and that today are mainly expressed in abstract 
mathematic al terms. 'The idea of a particle, for 
instance, was formulated by the fourth-century 
b.c. Greek philosopher Leucippus and his pupil 
Democritus, who called it the “atom” — i.e. the 
“indivisible unit.” Though the atom has not 
proved indivisible, we still conceive matter ulti- 
mately as consisting of waves and particle's (or 
discontinuous “quanta”). 

The idea of energy, and its relationship to 
force and movement, was also formulated by 
early Greek thinkers, and was developed by 
Stoic philosophers. They postulated the exist- 
ence of a sort of life-giving “tension” (tonos), 
which supports and moves all things. This is 
obviously a semi-mythological germ of our 
modern concept of energy. 

Even comparatively modern scientists and 
thinkers have relied on half-mythological, 
archetypal images when building up new con- 
cepts. In the 17th century, for instance, the 
absolute validity of the law of causality seemed 
“proved” to Rene Descartes “by the fact that 
God is immutable in His decisions and actions.” 
And the great German astronomer Johannes 
Kepler asserted that there are not more and not 
less than three dimensions of space on account 
of the Trinity. 

These are just two examples among many 
that show how even our modern and basic 
scientific concepts remained for a long time 
linked with archetypal ideas that originally 
came from the unconscious. They do not neces- 
sarily express “objective” facts (or at least we 
cannot prove that they ultimately do) butspring 
from innatemental tendenciesinman — tenden- 

cies that induce him to find “satisfactory” 
rational explanatory connections between the 
various outer and inner facts with which he has 
to deal. When examining nature and the uni- 
verse, instead of looking for and finding objec- 
tive qualities, “man encounters himself,” in the 
phrase of the physicist Werner Heisenberg. 

Because of the implications of this point of 
view, Wolfgang Pauli and other scientists have 
begun to study the role of archetypal symbolism 
in the realm of scientific concepts. Pauli be- 
lieved that we should parallel our investigation 
of outer objects with a psychological investiga- 
tion of the inner origin of our scientific con- 
cepts. (This investigation might shed new light 
on a far-reaching concept to be introduced later 
in this chapter - the concept of a “one-ness” 
between the physical and psychological spheres, 
quantitative and qualitative aspects of reality.) 

Besides this rather obvious link between the 
psychology of the unconscious and physics, there, 
are other even more fascinating connections. 
Jung (working closely with Pauli) discovered 
that analytical psychology has been forced by 
investigations in its own field to create concepts 
that turned out later to be strikingly similar to 
those created by the physicists when confronted 
with microphysical phenomena. Oneofthemost 
important among the physicists’ concepts is 
Niels Bohr’s idea of complementarity. 

Modern microphysics has discovered that one 
can describe light only by means of two logic- 
ally opposed but complementary concepts : The 
ideas of particle and wave. In grossly simplified 
terms, it might be said that under certain ex- 
perimental conditions light manifests itself as if 
it were composed of particles; under others, as 

The American physicist Mrs. Maria 
Mayer, who in 1 963 shared the Nobel 
prize for physics. Her discovery — 
concerning the constituents of the 
atomic nucleus— was made like so 
many other scientific discoveries: 
in an intuitive flash of insight 
(sparked by a colleague's chance 
remark). Her theory indicates that 
the nucleus consists of concentric 
shells: The innermost contains two 
protons or two neutrons, the next 
contains eight of one or the other, 
and so on through what she calls the 
"magic numbers '— 20, 28, 50, 82, 1 26. 

There is an obvious link between this 
model and the archetypes of the 
sphere and of numbers 

if it were a wave. Also, it was discovered that we 
can accurately observe either the position or the 
velocity of a subatomic particle — but not both 
at once. The observer must choose his experi- 
mental set-up, but by doing so he excludes (or 
rather must “sacrifice”) some other possible set- 
up and its results. Furthermore, the measuring 
apparatus has to be included in the description 
of events because it has a decisive but uncontrol- 
lable influence upon the experimental set-up. 

Pauli says: “The science of microphysics, on 
account of the basic ‘complementary’ situation, 
is faced with the impossibility of eliminating the 
effects of the observer by determinable correc- 
tives and has therefore to abandon in principle 
any objective understanding of physical pheno- 
mena. Where classical physics still saw ‘deter- 
mined causal natural laws of nature’ we now 
look only for ‘statistical laws’ with ‘primary 
possibilities.’ ” 

In other words, in microphysics the observer 
interferes with the experiment in a way that 
cannot be measured and that therefore cannot 
be eliminated. No natural laws can be formu- 
lated, saying “such-and-such will happen in 
every case.” All the microphysicist can say is 
“such-and-such is, according to statistical 
probability, likely to happen.” This naturally 
represents a tremendous problem for our 
classical physical thinking. It requires a con- 
sideration, in a scientific experiment, of the 
mental outlook of the participant-observer: It 
could thus be said that scientists can no longer 
hope to describe any aspects of outer objects in 
a completely “objective 1 * manner. 

Most modern physicists have accepted the 
fact that the role played by the conscious ideas 
of an observer in every microphysical experi- 
ment cannot be eliminated; but they have not 
concerned themselves with the possibility that 
the total psychological condition (both conscious 
and unconscious) of the observer might play a 
role as well. As Pauli points out, however, we 
have at least no a priori reasons for rejecting 
this possibility. But we must look at this as a still 
unanswered and an unexplored problem. 

Bohr’s idea of complementarity is especially 
interesting to Jungian psychologists, for Jung 

saw that the relationship between the conscious 
and unconscious mind also forms a complemen- 
tary pair of opposites. Each new content that 
comes up from the unconscious is altered in its 
basic nature by being partly integrated into the 
conscious mind of the observer. Even dream 
contents (if noticed at all) are in that way 
semi-conscious. And each enlargement of the 
observer’s consciousness caused by dream inter- 
pretation has again an immeasurable repercus- 
sion and influence on the unconscious. Thus the 
unconscious can only be approximately de- 
scribed (like the particles of microphysics) by 
paradoxical concepts. What it really is “in 
itself” we shall never know, just as we shall 
never know this about matter. 

To take the parallels between psychology and 
microphysics even further: What Jung calls the 
archetypes (or patterns of emotional and mental 
behavior in man) could just as well be called, 
to use Pauli’s term, “primary possibilities” of 
psychic reactions. As has been stressed in this 
book, there are no laws governing the specific 
form in which an archetype might appear. 
There are only “tendencies” (see p. 67) that, 
again, enable us to say only that such-and-such 
is likely to happen in certain psychological 

As the American psychologist William James 
once pointed out, the idea of an unconscious 
could itself be compared to the “field” concept 
in physics. We might say that, just as in a mag- 
netic field the particles entering into it appear 
in a certain order, psychological contents also 
appear in an ordered way within that psychic 
area which we call the unconscious. If we call 
something “rational” or “meaningful” in our 
conscious mind, and accept it as a satisfactory 
“explanation” of things, it is probably due to 
the fact that our conscious explanation is in 
harmony with some prcconscious constellation 
of contents in our unconscious. 

In other words, our conscious representations 
are sometimes ordered (or arranged in a pat- 
tern) before they have become conscious to us. 
The 19 th-century German mathematician Karl 
Friedrich Gauss gives an example of an experi- 
ence of such an unconscious order of ideas: He 


says that he found a certain rule in the theory 
of numbers “not by painstaking research, but 
by the Grace of God, so to speak. The riddle 
solved itself as lightning strikes , and I myself 
could not tell or show the connection between 
what I knew before, what I last used to experi- 
ment with, and what produced the final suc- 
cess.” The French scientist Henri Poincare is 
even more explicit about this phenomenon; he 
describes how during a sleepless night he actu- 
ally watched his mathematical representations 
colliding in him until some of them “found a 
more stable connection. One feels as if one 
could watch one’s own unconscious at work, the 
unconscious activity partially becoming mani- 
fest to consciousness without losing its own 
character. At such moments one has an intui- 
tion of the difference between the mechanisms 
of the two egos.” 

As a final example of parallel developments 
in microphysics and, psychology, we can con- 
sider Jung’s concept of meaning . Where before 
men looked for causal (i.e. rational) explana- 
tions of phenomena, Jung introduced the idea 
of looking for the meaning (or, perhaps we 
could say, the “purpose”). That is, rather than 
ask why something happened (i.e. what caused 
it), Jung asked : What did it happen for? This 
same tendency appears in physics: Many 
modern physicists are now looking more for 
“connections” in nature than for causal laws 

Pauli expected that the idea of the uncon- 
scious would spread beyond the “narrow frame 
of therapeutic use” and would influence all 
natural sciences that deal with general life 
phenomena. Since Pauli suggested this develop- 
ment he has been echoed by some physicists who 
are concerned with the new science of cyberne- 
tics— the comparative study of the “control” 
system formed by the brain and nervous system 
and such mechanical or electronic information 
and control systems as computers. In short, as 
the modern French scientist Oliver Costa de 
Beauregard has put it, science and psychology 
should in future “enter into an active dialogue.” 

The unexpected parallelisms of ideas in 
psychology and physics suggest, as Jung pointed 

out, a possible ultimate one-ness of both fields of 
reality that physics and psychology study — i.e. 
a psychophysical one-ness of all life phenomena. 
Jung was even convinced that what he calls 
the unconscious somehow links up with the 
structure of inorganic matter— a link to which 
the problem of so-called “psychosomatic” ill- 
ness seems to point. The concept of a Unitarian 
idea of reality (which has been followed up by 
Pauli and Erich Neumann) was called by Jung 
the urns mundus (the one world, within which 
matter and psyche are not yet discriminated or 
separately actualized). He paved the way to- 
ward such a Unitarian point of view by pointing 
out that an archetype shows a “psychoid” (i.e. 
not purely psychic but almost material) aspect 
when it appears within a synchronistic event — 
for such an event is in effect a meaningful 
arrangement of inner psychic and outer facts. 

In other words, the archetypes not only fit 
into outer situations (as animal patterns of be- 
havior fit into their surrounding nature) ; at 
bottom they tend to become manifest in a syn- 
chronistic “arrangement” that includes both 
matter and psyche. But these statements are just 
hints at some directions in which the investiga- 
tion of life phenomena might proceed. Jung 
felt that we should first learn a great deal more 
about the interrelation of these two areas (mat- 
ter and psyche) before rushing into too many 
abstract speculations about it. 

The field that Jung himself felt would be most 
fruitful for further investigations was the study 
of our basic mathematical axiomata — which 
Pauli calls “primary mathematical intuitions,” 
and among which he especially mentions the 
ideas of an infinite series of numbers in arith- 
metic, or of a continuum in geometry, etc. As 
the German-born author Hannah Arendt has 
said, “with the rise of modernity, mathematics 
do not simply enlarge their content or reach out 
into the infinite to become applicable to the 
immensity of an infinite and infinitely growing, 
expanding universe, but cease to be concerned 
with appearance at all. They are no longer the 
beginnings of philosophy, or the ‘science’ of 
Being in its true appearance, but become 
instead the science of the structure of the 


human mind.” (A Jungian would at once add 
the question: Which mind? The conscious or 
the unconscious mind?) 

As we have seen with reference to the 
experiences of Gauss arid Poincare, the mathe- 
maticians also discovered the fact that our 
representations are “ordered” before we become 
aware of them. B. L. van der Waerden, who 
cites many examples of essential mathematical 
insights arising from the unconscious, concludes: 
“. . . the unconscious is not only able to associate 
and combine, but even to judge. The judgment of 
the unconscious is an intuitive one, but it is under 
favorable circumstances completely sure.” 

Among the many mathematical primary in- 
tuitions, or a priori ideas, the “natural num- 
bers” seem psychologically the most interesting. 
Not only do they serve our conscious everyday 
measuring and counting operations; they have 
for centuries been the only existing means for 
“reading” the meaning of such ancient forms of 
divination as astrology, numerology, geomancy, 
etc. — all of which are based on arithmetical 
computation and all of which have been inves- 
tigated by Jung in terfns of his theory of syn- 
chronicity. Furthermore, the natural numbers 
— viewed from a psychological angle — must cer- 
tainly be archetypal representations, for we are 
forced to think about them in certain definite 
ways. Nobody, for instance, can deny that 2 is 
the only existing even primary number, even if 
he has never thought about it consciously 
before. In other words, numbers are not con- 
cepts consciously invented by men for purposes 
of calculation: They are spontaneous and 
autonomous products of the unconscious — as 
are other archetypal symbols. 

But the natural numbers are also qualities 
adherent to outer objects: We can assert and 
count that there are two stones here or three 
trees there. Even if we strip outer objects of all 
such qualities as color, temperature, size, etc., 
there still remains their “many-ness” or special 
multiplicity. Yet these same numbers are also 
just as indisputably parts of our own mental 
set-up — abstract concepts that we can study 
without looking at outer objects. Numbers thus 
appear to be a tangible connection between the 

spheres of matter and psyche. According to hints 
dropped by Jung, it is here that the most fruit- 
ful field of further investigation might be found. 

I mention these rather difficult concepts 
briefly in order to show that, to me, Jung’s ideas 
do not form a “doctrine” but are the beginning 
of a new outlook that will continue to evolve 
and expand. I hope they will give the reader 
a glimpse into what seems to me to have been 
essential to and typical of Jung’s scientific atti- 
tude. He was always searching, with unusual 
freedom from conventional prejudices, and at 
the same time with great modesty and accuracy, 
to understand the phenomenon of life. He did 
not go further into the ideas mentioned above, 
because he felt that he had not yet enough 
facts in hand to say anything relevant about 
them — just as he generally waited several years 
before publishing his new insights, checking 
them again and again in the meantime, and 
himself raising every possible doubt about them. 

Therefore, what might at first sight strike the 
reader as a certain vagueness in his ideas comes 
in fact from this scientific attitude of intellectual 
modesty - - an attitude that does not exclude (by 
rash, superficial pseudo-explanations and over- 
simplifications) new possible discoveries, and 
that respects the complexity of the phenomenon 
of life. For this phenomenon was always an 
exciting mystery to Jung. It was never, as it is 
for people with closed minds, an “explained” 
reality about which it can be assumed that we 
know everything. 

Creative ideas, in my opinion, show their 
value in that, like keys, they help to “unlock” 
hitherto unintelligible connections of facts and 
thus enable man to penetrate deeper into the 
mystery of life. I am convinced that Jung’s 
ideas can serve in this way to find and interpret 
new facts in many fields of science (and also of 
everyday life), simultaneously leading the indi- 
vidual to a more balanced, more ethical, and 
wider conscious outlook. If the reader should 
feel stimulated to work further on the investi- 
gation and assimilation of the unconscious — 
which always begins by working on oneself — 
the purpose of this introductory book would be 

3 l ° 


Approaching the unconscious C. G. Jung 
page 37 Nietzsche’s cryptomnesia is discussed in Jung’s 
“On the Psychology of So-called Occult Phenomena,” in 
Collected Works vol. I. The relevant passage from the 
ship’s log and the corresponding passage from Nietzsche 
are as follows : 

From J. Kerner, Blatter aus Brevorst , vol. IV, p. 5)7, 
headed “An Kxtract of Awe-inspiring Import . . (orig. 
1831-37) : “ File four captains and a merchant, Mr. Bell, 
went ashore on the island of Mount Stromboli to shoot 
rabbits. At three o'clock they mustered the crew to go 
aboard, when, to their inexpressible astonishment, they 
saw two men flying rapidly toward them through the air. 
One was dressed in black, the other in grey. They came 
past them very closely, in greatest haste, and to their 
utmost dismay descended into the crater of the terrible 
volcano, Mount Stromboli. They recognized the pair as 
acquaintances from London.” 

From F. Nietzsche, 7 hus Spake kfaralhuslra, chapter xl, 
“Great Events” (translated by Common, p. 180, slightly 
modified), orig. 1883: “Now about the time that Zara- 
thustra sojourned on the Happy Isles, it happened that 
a ship anchored at the isle on which the smoking moun- 
tain stands, and the crew went ashore to shoot rabbits. 
About the noon-tide hour, however, when the captain 
and his men were together again, they suddenly saw a 
man coming toward them through the air, and a voice 
said distinctly: 'It is time! It is highest time!’ 

But when the figure drew close to them, flying past 
quickly like a shadow in the direction of the volcano, 
they recognized with the greatest dismay that it was 
Zarathustra . . . ‘Behold,’ said the old helmsman, Zara- 
thustra goes down to hell !’ 

38 Robert Louis Stevenson discusses his dream of 
Jekyll and Hyde in “A Chapter on Dreams” from his 
Across the. Plain. 

56 A more detailed account of Jung’s dream is given 
in Memories , Dreams , Reflections of C. C. Jung, ed. Aniela 
Jaffe, New York, Pantheon, 1962. 

63 I Examples of the state of subliminal ideas and images 
can be found in Pierre Janet’s works. 

93 Furt her examples of cultural symbols appear in 
Mircea Eliade’s Der Schamanismus, Zurich. 1947. 

See also The Collected Works of Carl G. Jung, vols. 
I-XV1II; London, Routledge & Kegan Paul; New York, 
Boll ingen- Pantheon. 

Ancient myths and modern man Joseph L. Henderson 

108 ( Concerning the finality of Christ’s resurrection: 

(Christianity is an eschatological religion, meaning it 
has a final end in view that becomes synonymous with 
the Last Judgment. Other religions, in which matri- 
archal elements of tribal culture are preserved (e.g. 

Orphism ), are cyclical, as demonstrated by Eliade in 
The Myth of the Eternal Return , New York, Bollingen- 
Panthcon, 1954. 

112 See Paul Radin, Hero Cycles of the Winnebago, 

Indiana University Publications, 1948. 

113 Concerning Hare, Dr. Radin remarks: “Hare is the 
typical hero as we know him from all over the world, 
civilized and pre-literate, and from the* most remote 
periods of world history.” 

114 The twin Navaho warrior gods are discussed by 
Maud Oakes in Where the / wo Came to their Eat her . A 
Navaho War Ceremonial, New York, Bollingen, 1943, 

117 Jung discusses Trickster in “On the Psychology 
of the Trickster Figure,” Collet ted Works vol. IX. 

118 The ego's conflict with the shadow is discussed in 
Jung’s “The Battle for Deliverance from the Mother,” 
Collected Works vol. V. 

125 F or an interpretation of the Minotaur myth, see 
Mary Renault’s novel 7 he Ting Must Die , Pantheon, 1958. 

125 The symbolism of the labyrinth is discussed by 
Erich Neumann in The Origins and History of Conscious- 
ness, Bollingen, 1954. 

126 F or the Navaho myth of Coyote, see Margaret 
Schevill Link and J. L. Henderson, The Pollen Path . 
Stanford, 1954. 

128 The emergence of the ego is discussed by Erich 
Neumann, op. e/7.; Michael Fordham, New Developments 
in Analytical Psychology, London, Routledge & Kegan 
Paul, 1957; and Esther M. Harding, 'The Restoration 

of the Injured Archetypal Image (privately circulated;. 

New York, 1960. 

129 Jung’s study of initiation appears in “Analytical 
Psychology and the Weltanschauung,” Collected Works 
vol. VIII. See also Arnold van Gennep, The Rites of 
Passage, Chicago, 1961. 

132 Women’s trials of strength are discussed by Erich 
Neumann in Amor and Psyche, Bollingen, 1956. 

137 The tale of “Beauty and the Beast” appears in Mme. 
Leprince de Beaumont’s The Eairy 'Tale Book, New York. 
Simon & Schuster, 1958. 

141 The myth of Orpheus can be found in Jane E. 
Harrison’s Prolegomena to the Study of Creek Religion, 
Cambridge University Press, 1922. See also W. K. (’. 
Guthrie, Orpheus and Creek Religion, Cambridge, 1935. 

142 Jung’s discussion of the Catholic ritual of the 
chalice is in “Transformation Symbolism in the Mass,” 
Collected Works vol. XL Set* also Alan Watts, Xlyth 
and Ritual in Christianity , Vanguard Press, 1953. 

145 Linda Fierz-David's interpretation of Orphic 
ritual appears in Psychologische Betrachtungen zu der 
Freskenfolge der Villa dei Misteri in Potnpeji. ein Versuch 
von Linda Tier. z- David, trans. Gladys Phelan (privately 
printed), Zurich, 1957. 

148 The Roman funeral urn from the Esq inline Hill is 
discussed by Jane Harrison, op. cil. 

149 See Jung’s “ The Transcendent Function,” edited by 
the Students’ Association, C. G. Jung Institute, Zurich. 

151 Joseph Campbell discusses the shaman as bird in 
The Symbol without Meaning , Zurich, Rhein- Verlag, 1958. 

152 For T. S. Eliot’s “The Waste Land,” see his 
Collected Poems, London, Faber and Faber, 1963. 

The process of individuation M.-L. von Franz 

160 A detailed discussion of the meandering pattern of 
dreams appears in Jung’s Collected Works vol. VIII, 

p. 23 ff. and pp. 237-300 (especially p. 290). For an 
example see Jung’s Collected Works vol. XII, part 1. 

See also Gerhard Adler, Studies in Analytical Psychology, 
London, 1948. 

161 I or Jung’s discussion of the Self, see Collected 
Works vol. IX, part 2, pp. 5 If., 23 If. ; and vol. XII, 
pp. 18 f, 41 f., 174, 193. 

161 The Naskapi are described by Frank (J. Speck in 
Naskapi : ‘ The Savage. Hunter of the Labrador Peninsula, 
University of Oklahoma Press, 1935. 

162 The concept of psychic wholeness is discussed in 
Jung’s Collected Works vol. XIV, p. 117, and in vol 
IX, part 2, p. 6, 190. See also Collected Works vol. 

IX, part I, pp. 275 ff., 290 ff. 

163 Th e story of the oak tree is translated from 
Richard Wilhelm, Dschuang-Dsi ; Das wahre Bitch vow 
\i\dhchen B Hit end! and, Jena, 1923, pp. 33-4. 

163 Ju ng deals with the tree as a symbol of' the indiv- 
iduation process in “Der philosophisehe Baum,” Von 
den Wurzeln des Bewusslseins , Zuric'h, 1954 (not yet 

163 The “local god” to whom sacrifices were made on 
the stone earth-altar corresponds in many respects to 
the antique genius loci. See Henri Maspero, La Chine 
antique , Paris, 1955, p. 140 f. (This information 

is owed to the kindness of Miss A*riane Rump. ) 

164 Jung notes the difficulty of describing the individ- 
uation process in Collected Works vol. XVII, p. 179. 

165 This brief description of the importance of 
children’s dreams derives mostly 'from Jung’s Psycho- 
logical Interpretation of Children's Dreams (notes and 
lectures), E. T. H. Zurich, 1938-9 (private circulation 
only). The special example comes from an untranslated 
seminar, Psychologische Interpretation von Kinder traumen, 
1939-40, p. 76 ff. See also Jung’s “The Development of 
Personality,” Collected Works vol. XVII; Michael 
Fordham, The Life of Childhood, Condon, 1944 (especially 
p. 104) ; Erich Neumann, The Origins and History of 
Consciousness', Frances Wickes, Lite Inner World of 
Consciousness, New York-Eondon, 1927; and 

Eleanor Bertine, Human Relationships , Condon, 1958. 

166 Jung discusses the psychic nucleus in “The Develop- 
ment of Personality,” Collected Works vol. XVII, 

p. 175, and vol. XIV, p. 9 ff. 

167 E or fairy tale patterns corresponding to the sick 
king motif, see Joh. Bolte and G. Polivka, Anmerkungen 
zu den Kinder- und Hausmarchen der Br'uder Grimm , vol. I, 
1913-32, p. 503 ff. i.e. all variations to Grimm’s 
tale The Golden Bird. 

168 Further discussion of the shadow can be found in 
Jung’s Collected Works vol. IX, part 2, chapter 2, and 
vol. XII, p. 29 f., and idem: The Undiscovered Self , 

London, 1958, pp. 8-9. See also Frances Wickes, 

The Inner World of Man. New York-Toronto, 1938. 

A good example of shadow realization is given in 
G. Schmalz, Komplexe Psychologie und Korperliches Symptom, 
Stuttgart, 1955. 

170 E xamples of the Egyptian Concept of the under- 
world appear in 'The Tomb of Rameses VI, Bollingen 
series XL, parts 1 and 2, Pantheon Books, 1954. 

172 Jung deals with the nature of projection in 
Collected Works vol. VI, Definitions, p. 582; and 
Collected Works vol. VIII, p. 272 ff. 

175 The Koran (Qur’an) has hreen translated by E. H. 
Palmer, Oxford University Press, 1949. See also 
Jung’s interpretation of the story-of Moses and Khidr 
in Collected Works vol. IX, p. 135 ff. 

175 The Indian story Somadeva : V elalapanchavimsali 
has been translated by C. H. Tawney, Jaico-book, 
Bombay, 1956. See also Henry Zimmer’s excellent 
psychological interpretation The King and the Corpse, 
Bollingen series IX, New York, Pantheon, 1948. 

176 The reference to the Zen master is from Der Ochs 
und sein Hirte (trans. by Koichi Tsujimura), Pfullingen, 
1958, p. 95. 

177 For further discussion of the anima, see Jung’s 
Collected Works vol. IX, part 2, pp. 1 1-12, and chapter 
3; vol. XVII, p. 198 f.; vol. VIII, p. 345; vol. XI, 

pp. 29-31, 41 fi, 476, etc.; vol. XII, Part 1. See 
also Emma Jung, Animus and Anima, Two Essays, The 
Analy tical Club of New York, 1957; Eleanor Bertine, 
Human Relationships, part 2; Esther Harding, Psychic 
Energy, New York, 1948, passim, -and others. 

177 Eskimo shamanism has been described by Mircea 
Eliade in Der Schamanismus, Zurich, 1947, especially 

p. 49 ff. ; and by Knud Rasmussen in Thulefahrt, 
Frankfurt, 1926, passim. 

178 The Siberian hunter story is from Rasmussen, 

Die Gabe des Adlers, Frankfurt a.M., 1926, p. 172. 

179 A discussion of the “poison damsel” appears in W. 
Hertz, Die Sage vom Gifimddchen, Abh. der k. bayr. Akad. 
der Wiss., 1 Cl. XX Bd. 1 Abt. Miinchen, 1893. 

179 The murderous princess is discussed by Chr. Hahn 
in Griechische und Albanesische Mdrchen, vol. 1, Munchen- 
Berlin, 1918, p. 301 : Der Jager und der Spiegel 

der alles sieht. 

180 “Love madness” caused by an anima projection is 
examined in Eleanor Bertine’s Human Relationships, 

p. 1 13 sq. See also Dr. H. Strauss’ excellent paper 
“Die Anima als Projections-erlebnis,” unpublished ms., 
Heidelberg, 1959. 

180 Jung discusses the possibility of psychic integra- 
tion through a negative anima in Collected Works 
vol. IX, p^ 224 sq.; vol. XI, p. 164 ff . ; vol. XII, 
pp. 25 sq., 1 1 0 sq., 128. 

185 I or the four stages of the anima, see Jung’s 
Collected Works vol. XVI, p. 174. 

186 Francesco Colonna’s Hypnerolomachia has been 
interpreted by Linda Fierz-David in Der Liebestraum des 
Poliphilo , Zurich, 1947. 

186 The quotation describing the role of the animads 
from Aurora Consurgens I, translated by E. A. Glover 
(English translation in preparation). German edition 
by M.-L. von Franz, in Jung’s Mys ter turn Coniunctionis , 
vol. 3, 1958. 

187 Jung has examined the knightly cult of the lady 
in Collected Works vol. VI, p. 274 and 290 sq. See 

also Emma Jung and M.-E. von Franz, Die Graalslegende 
in psychologischer Sichl, Zurich, 1960. 

189 For the animus’ appearance as a “sacred convic- 
tion,” see Jung’s Two Essays in Analytical Psychology , 
London, 1928, p. 127 ff . ; Collected Works vol. IX, 
chapter 3. See also Emma Jung, Animus and Anima , 
passim; Esther Harding, Woman's Mysteries, New York, 
1955; Eleanor Bertine, Human Relationships, p. 128 
ff. ; Toni Wolff, Sludien zu C. G. Jung's Psychologic , 

Zurich, 1959, p. 257 ff . ; Erich Neumann, fur Psychologic 
des Weiblichen , Zurich, 1953. 

189 The gypsy fairy tale can be found in Der Tod 
als Geliebler, Zigeuner-Marchen. Die Mdrchen der W ell- 
lit eralur, ed. F. von der Leyen and P. Zaunert, Jena, 

1926, p. 1 17 sq. 

194 Th e animus as provider of valuable masculine 
qualities is dealt with by Jung in Collected Works vol. 

IX, p. 182 sq., and idem: Two Essays, Chapter 4. 

196 F or the Austrian tale of the black princess, see 
“Die schwarze Konigstochter,” Mdrchen aus dem Donau- 
lande , Die Mdrchen der Weltliteratur, Jena, 1926, p. 150 sq. 
196 The Eskimo tale of the Moon Spirit is from “Von 
einer Frau die zur Spinne wurde,” translated from K. 
Rasmussen, Die Gabe des Adlers , p. 121 sq. 

196 A discussion of the Selfs young-old personifica- 
tions appears in Jung’s Collected Works vol. IX, p. 151 sq 
200 The myth of P’an Ku can be found in Donald A. 
MacKenzie’s Myths of China and Japan, London, p. 260, 
and in If Maspero’s Le Taoisme , Paris, 1950, p. 109. See 
also J. ]. M. de Groot, Universismus , Berlin, 1918, pp, 

130 31 ; H. Kocstler, Symbolik des Chinesischen Univer- 
sismus, Stuttgart, 1958, p. 40; and Jung’s Mysterium 
Coniunctionis, vol. 2, pp. 160-6E 

200 For discussion of Adam as Cosmic Man, see August 
Wunsche, Schopfung und Sunden fall des ersten Menschen. 
Leipzig, 1906, pp. 8-9 and p. 13; Hans Eeisegang. Die 


Gnosis , Leipzig, Kronersche Taschenausgabe. For the 
psychological interpretation see Jung’s Myslerium. 
Coniunctionis, vol. 2, chapter 5, pp. 140-99; and 
Collected Works vol. XII, p. 346 sq. There may 
also be historical connections between the Chinese P’an 
Ku, the Persian Gayomart, and the legends of Adam; see 
Sven S. Hartmann, Gayomar /, Uppsala, 1953, pp. 46, 1 15. 
202 The concept of Adam as “super-soul,” coming from 
a date palm, is dealt with by K. S. D rower in The Secret 
Adam , A Study of Nasoraean Gnosis , Oxford, 1960, pp. 23, 

26, 27, 37. 

202 The quotation from Meister Eckhart is from F. 
Pfeiffer’s Master Eckhardl , trans. C. de B. Evans, 

London, 1924, vol. II, p. 80. 

202 For Jung’s discussions of Cosmic Man, see 
Collected Works vol. IX, part 2, p. 36 sq.; “Answer to Job,” 
Collected Works vol. XI, and Myslerium Coniunctionis , 
vol. 2, p. 215 scj. See also Esther Harding, Journey into 
Self, London, 1956, passim. 

202 Adam Kadmon is discussed in Gershom Sholem’s 
Major Trends m Jewish Mysticism , 1941 ; and Jung’s 
Myslerium Gomunct toms , vol. 2, p. 182 sq. 

204 The symbol of the royal couple is examined in 
Jung’s Collected Works vol. XVI, p. 313, and in 
Myslerium Coniunctionis , vol. 1, pp. 143, 179; vol. 2, pp. 

86, 90, 140, 285. See also Plato's Symposium , and the 
Gnostic God-man, the Anthropos figure. 

205 For the stone, as a symbol of the Self, see Jung's 
Von den Wurze-ln des Bewusstseins , Zurich, 1954, pp. 200 
sq., 415 sq., and 449 sq. (not yet translated). 

206 The point where the urge to individuate is 
consciously realized is discussed in Jung’s Collected 
Works vol. XII, passim, Von den Wurzeln des Bewusstseins , 
p. 200 sq. ; Collected Works vol. IX, part 2, pp. 139 sq., 

236, 247 sq., 268; Collected Works vol. XVI, p. 

164 sq. See also Collected Works vol. VIII, p. 253 
sq.; and Toni Wolff, Studien zu C. G. Jung's Psychologic, 
p. 43. See also, essentially, Jung’s Myslerium Coniunctionis , 
vol. 2, p. 318 sq. 

207 For an extended discussion of “active imagination,” 
see Jung’s “The T ranscendent Function,” in Collected 
Works vol. VIII. 

207 The zoologist Adolf Portmann describes animal 
“inwardness” in Das Tier a/s soziales Wesen, Zurich, 

1953, p. 366. 

209 Ancient German beliefs concerning tombstones are 
discussed in Paul Herrmann’s Das all Germanise he Priester- 
wesen, Jena, 1929, p. 52; and in Jung’s Von den Wurzeln 
des Bewusstseins , p. 198 sq. 

210 Moi ienus’s description of the philosophers’ stone is 
quoted in Jung’s Collected Works vol. XII, p. 300, note 45. 
210 That suffering is necessary to find the stone is 

an alchemical dictum; compare Jung’s Collected Works 
vol. XII, p. 280 sq. 

210 Jung discusses the relationship between psyche and 
matter in Two Essays on Analytical Psychology , pp. 142-46. 

211 For a full explanation of synchronicity, see Jung’s 
“Synchronicity: an Acausal Connecting Principle,” in 
Collected Works vol. VIII, p. 419 sq. 

212 For Jung’s views on turning to Eastern religion 
in order to contact the unconscious, see' “Concerning 
Mandala Symbolism,” Collected Works vol. IX, part 1, 
p. 335 sq., and vol. XII, p. 212 sq. (Of the latter, see 
also pp. 19, 42, 91 sq., 101, 1 19 sq., 159, 162,) 

212 The excerpt from the Chinese text is from Lu K'uan 
Yu, Charles Luk, Ch’an and Zen Teaching, London, p. 27. 
216 The tale of the Bath Badgerd is from Marchen a us 
Iran , Die Marchen der Weltlileratur, Jena, 1959, p. 150 sq. 

217 Jung examines the modern feeling of being a “statis- 
tical cipher” in The Undiscovered Self , pp. 14, 109. 

220 Dream interpretation on the subjective level is 
discussed in Jung’s Collected Works vol. VIII, p. 266 and 
vol. XVI, p.‘ 243. 

220 That man is instinctively “in tune” with his sur- 
roundings is discussed by A. Portmann in Das Tier a/s 
soziales Wesen, p. 65 sq. and passim. See also N. Tinbergen, 
A Study of Instinct , Oxford, 1955, pp. 151 sq. and 207 sq. 

221 El. PL E. Hartley discusses the mass unconscious 
in Fundamentals of Social Psychology, New York, 1952. 

See also Eh. Janwitz and R. Schulze, Neue Richtungen in 
der Massenkommunikalionforschung, Rundfunk und Fern- 
sehen, 1960, pp. 7, 8 and passim. Also, ibid, pp. 

1-20, and Unterschwellige Kommunikation, ibid., 1960, 

Heft 3/4, p. 283 and p. 306. (This information is 
owed to the kindness of Mr. Rene Malamoud.) 

224 Th e value of freedom (to create something useful ) 
is stressed by Jung in The Undiscovered Self, p. 9. 

224 F’or religious figures that symbolize the individua- 
tion process, see Jung’s Collected Works vol. XI, 

p. 273 and passim, and ibid.. Part 2 and p. 164 sep 

225 Jung discusses religious symbolism in modern dreams 
in Collected Works vol. XII, p. 92. See also ibid., 

pp. 28, 169 sq., 207, and others. 

225 The addition of a fourth element to the Trinity is 
examined by Jung in Myslerium Coniunctionis, vol. 2, 
pp. 1 12 sq., 117sq., 123 sq. (not yet translated), and 
Collected Works vol. VIII, p. 136 sq. and 160-62. 

228 The vision of Black ETk is from Black Elk Speaks, 
ed. John G. Neihardt, New York, 1932. German edition: 
Schwarzer Hirsch: Ich rufe mein Volk, Olten, 1955. 

228 The story of the FXkimo eagle festival is from 
Knud Rasmussen, Die Gabe des Adlers , pp. 23 sq., 29 sq. 

228 Jung discusses the reshaping of original mythological 
material in Collected Works vol. XI, p. 20 sq., and 

vol. XII, Introduction. 

229 The physicist W. Pauli has described the effects 
of modern scientific discoveries, like Heisenberg’s, 

in Die Philosophische Bedeutung der Idee der Komple- 
menlanldl, “FXperientia,” vol. VI/2, p. 72 sq.; and 
m und Phystk, “ DialiCticaT’ vol. 

VI 1 1/2, 1954, p. 1 17. 

Symbolism in the visual arts Aniela Jaffe 

234 Max FTnst’s statement is quoted in C. Giedion- 
Welcker, Contemporary Sculpture, New York, 1955. 

234 Herbert Kuhn’s examination of prehistoric art 
is in his Die Pelsbilder Europas, Stuttgart, 1952. 

236 Concerning the No drama, compare I). Seckel, 
Einfiihrung in die Kunst Ostasiens, Munich, 1960, figs. 

1 e and 16. F’or the fox-mask used in No drama, see 
G. Buschan, Tiere in Kult und Aberglauben , Ciba 
Journal, Basle, Nov. 1942, no. 86. 

237 For the animal attributes of various gods, see 
G. Buschan, op. eft. 

238 J ung discusses the symbolism of the unicorn (one 
symbol of Christ) in Collected Works vol. XII, p. 415 ff. 
240 F or the myth of Brahma, see H. Zimmer, Maya . der 
indische Mythos, Stuttgart-Berlin, 1936. 

240 The birth of Buddha appears in the Sanskrit 
Lalila Vi stern . c. a.d. 600 to 1000; trans. Paris, 1884. 

240 J ung discusses the four functions of consciousness 
in Collected Works vol. VI. 

240 Tibetan mandalas are discussed and interpreted in 
Jung’s Collected Works vol. IX. 

242 The picture of the Virgin in the center of a 
circular tree is the central panel of the Triptyque du 

3 1 3 

Buisson Ardent , 1476, Cathedrale Saint-Saveur, 

Aix-en- Provence. 

242 Examples of sacred buildings with mandala 
ground plans: Borobudur, Java ; the Taj Mahal; the 
Omar Mosque in Jerusalem. Secular buildings: Castel del 
Monte, built by the Holy Roman Emperor Frederick II 
(1194-1250) in Apulia. 

242 For the mandala in the foundation of primitive 
villages and sacred places, see M. Eliade, Das Heilige 
und das Profane , Hamburg, 1957. 

242 The theory that quadrata means “quadripartite' - ’ 
was proposed by Franz Altheim, the Berlin classical 
scholar. See K. Kerenyi, Introduction to Kcrenyi-Jung, 
Einfuhrung in das Wesen der Mylhologie , Zurich, p. 20. 

242 The other theory, that the urbs quadrata referred 
to squaring the circle, is from Kerenyi, lac. cit. 

243 For the Heavenly City, see Book of Revelation, XXI. 
243 The quotation from Jung is from his Commentary 

on the Secret of the Golden Flower , London-New York, 

1956, 10th edition. 

243 E xamples of the equilateral cross: crucifixion from 
the Evangel ienharmonie, Vienna, Nat. Bib. Cod. 2687 
(Otfried von Weissenberg, ninth century); Gosforth 
cross, 10th century; the Monasterboice cross, 

10th century; or the Ruthwell cross. 

245 The discussion of the change in ecclesiastical 
building is based on information in Karl Litz’s essay 
Die Mandala , ein Beispiel der Archil eklursymboUk , 

Winterthur, November 1960. 

247 Matisse’s Still Life ... is in the Thompson 
Collection, Pittsburgh. 

247 Kandinsky’s painting containing loose colored balls 
or circles is entitled Blurred White , 1927, and is in the 
Thompson Collection. 

247 Paul Nash’s Event on the Downs is in Mrs. C. 

Neilson’s collection. See George W. Digby, Meaning and 
Symbol , Faber & F'aber, London. 

249 Jung’s discussion of UFOs is in Flying Saucers: 

A Modern Myth of Things Seen in the Skies , London- 
New York, 1959. 

250 The quotation from Bazainc’s Notes sur la peinture 
d’aujourd’hui (Paris, 1953) was quoted in Walter 
Hess, Dokumente zum Verstdndnis der modernen Malerei , 
Hamburg, 1958 (Rowohlt), p. 122. A number of 
quotations in this chapter have been taken from this 
extremely useful compilation, which will be referred to 
hereafter as Dokumente. 

250 Franz Marc’s statement is from Briefe, Aufzeichnungen 
und Aphof/smen , Berlin, 1920. 

250 For Kandinsky’s book, see sixth edition, Berne, 

1959. (First edition, Munich, 1912.) Dokumente, p. 80. 

250 Mannerism and modishness in modern art is 
discussed by Werner Haftmann in Glanz und Gefahrdung 
der Abstrakten Malerei , in Skizzenbuch zur Kultur der 
Gegenwarl, Munich, 1960, p. 111. See also Haftmann’s 
Die Malerei im. 20. Jahrhunderl , second edn., Munich, 

1957 ; and Herbert Read, A Concise History of Modern 
Painting , London, 1959, and numerous individual studies. 

251 Kandinsky’s essay “Uber die Formfrage” is in 
Der blaue Reiter , Munich, 1912. See Dokumente , p. 87. 

253 Bazaine’s comments on Duchamp’s bottle rack are 
from Dokumente , p. 122. 

253 Joan Miro’s statement is from Joan Mird , Horizont f 
Collection, Arche Press. 

254 The reference to Schwitters’ “obsession’’ is from 
Werner Haftmann, op. cit. 

254 Kandinsky’s statement is from Selbstbetrachlungen, 
Berlin, 1913. Dokumente , p. 89. 

254 The quotation from Carlo Carra is from W. 
Haftmann’s Paul Klee , Wege bildnerischen Denkens , Munich, 
1955, third edn., p. 7 1 . 

254 The statement by Klee is from Wege des 
Naturstudiums, Weimar, Munich, 1923. Dokumente , p. 125. 
254 Bazaine’s remark is from Notes sur la peinture 
d’aujourd’ hui, Paris, 1953. Dokumente , p. 125. 

254 The statement by de Chirico is from Su/TArle 
Metafisica , Rome, 1919. Dokumente , p. 112. 

255 The quotations from de Chirico’s Memorie della mia 
Vita are in Dokumente , p. 112. 

255 Kandinsky’s statement about the death of God is 
in his Ueber das Geislige in der Kunst, op. c/I. 

255 Of the 19th-century European poets alluded to, 
see especially Heinrich Heine, Rimbaud, and 

255 The quotation from Jung is from Collected Works 
vol. XI, p. 88. 

257 Artists in whose work manichini appear include 
Carlo Carra, A. Archipenko (1887-1964), and Giorgio 
Morandi (1890-1964). 

257 The comment on Chagall by Herbert Read is from 
his A Concise History of Modern Painting , London, 1959, 
p. 124, 126, 128. 

257 Andre Breton’s statements arc from Manifestes du 
Surreal isme 1924-42, Paris, 1946. Dokumente , p. 117, 118. 

258 The quotation from Ernst’s Beyond Painting (New 
York, 1948) is in Dokumente , p. 119. 

259 References to Hans Arp are based on Carola 
Giedion-Welcker, Hans Arp, 1957, p. xvi. 

259 Reference to Ernst’s Histoire Nalurelle is in 
Dokumente , p. 121. 

260 On the 19th-century Romantics and “nature’s 
handwriting,’’ see Novalis, Die Lehrlinge zu Sais; 

E. T. A. Hoffmann, Das Marchen vom Goldnen Topf\ 

G. H. von Schubert, Symbolik des Traumes. 

260 Kassner’s comment on Georg Trakl is from 
Almanach de la Librairie El inker , Paris, 1961. 

262 Kandinsky’s statements are, respectively, from 
Ruckblicke (quoted from Max Bill’s Introduction to 
Kandinsky’s [Jeber das Geislige . . ., op. cit .) ; from 
Selbsldarstellung, Berlin, 1913 ( Dokumente , p. 86); 
and from Haftmann, Malerei im. 20. Jahrhundert. 

262 F ranz Marc’s statements are respectively from 
Briefe, Aufzeichnungen und Aphorismen, op. at . ; 

Dokumente , p. 79 f . ; and from Haftmann, op. cit., p. 478. 
262 Klee's statement is from IJeber die moderne Kunst, 
Lecture, 1924. Dokumente, p. 84. 

262 Mondrian’s statement is from Neue Gestaltung, 
Munich, 1925. Dokumente, p. 100. 

263 Kandinsky’s statements arc respectively from 
Ueber das Geislige . . . , op. cit., p. 83; from Ueber die 
Formfrage, Munich, 1912 ( Dokumente , p. 88 j; from 
Ueber das Geislige . . . ( Dokumente , p. 88) ; and from 
Aufsdtze, 1923-43 ( Dokumente , p. 91). 

263 Franz Marc’s statement is quoted from Georg 
Schmidt, Vom Sinn der Parallele in Kunst und Naturform , 
Basle, 1960. 

263 Klee’s statements are respectively from Ueber die 
Moderne Kunst , op. cit. ( Dokumente , p. 84) ; Tagebucher, 
Berlin, 1953 ( Dokumente , p. 86) ; quoted from Haftmann, 
Paul Klee , op. cit.. p. 93 and p. 50; Tagebucher, ( Dokumentee 
p. 86) ; and Haftmann, p. 89. 

264 Reference to Pollock's painting is in Haftmann, 
Malerei im 20. Jahrhunderl, p. 464. 

264 Pollock s statements are from My Painting. 
Possibilities, New York, 1947. Quoted from Herbert Read, 
op. cit., p. 267. 

264 The quotation from Jung is from Collected Works 
vol. IX, p. 173. 

265 Read’s quotation of Klee is from Concise 
History . . . , op. cit., p. 180. 

265 Mare’s statement is from Briefe , Aufzeicftnungen und 
Aphon smeit. Dokumente , p. 79. 

265 The discussion of Marini is from Edouard Roditi, 
Dialoge iiber Kunst , Inscl Verlag, 1960. (The conversation 
is given here in a very abbreviated form. ) 

268 The statement by Manessier is quoted from 
W. Haftmann, op. cit . , p. 474. 

268 B a/.aine's comment is from his Notes sur la peinture 
d'aujourd'hui , op. cit. Dokumente , p. 126. 

270 The statement by Klee is from W. Haftmann, 

Paul Klee , p. 71. 

270 For reference to modern art in churches, see 
W. Schmalenbach, JJur Ausslellung von Alfred Manessier , 
Zurich Art Gallery, 1959. 

Symbols in an individual analysis Jolande Jacobi 

273 The Palace of Dreams: a 16th-century illustration 
to Book XIX of Homer’s Odyssey. In the center 
niche stands the goddess of sleep holding a bouquet of 
poppy flowers. On her left is the Gate of Horn (with the 
head of a horned ox above it) ; from this gate come true 
dreams: on her right the Gate of Ivory with an elephant’s 
head above; from this gate come false dreams. Top left, 
the goddess of the moon, Diana; top right, Night, with 
the infants Sleep and Death. 

277 Th e importance of the first dream in an analysis is 
indicated bv Jung in Modern Man in Search of a Soul , p. 77. 
290 Regarding the section on the Oracle Dream, see the 
I Ching or Book of Changes , trans. Richard Wilhelm (with 
an introduction by C. G. Jung), Routledge and Kegan 
Paul, London, 1951, vols. I and II. 

292 The symbolism in the three upper lines of the sign 
Mcng the “gate” is mentioned in op. cit ., vol. II, 
p. 299, which also states that this sign “. . . is a bypath, 
it means little stones, doors and openings . . . eunuchs 
and watchmen, the fingers ...” For the sign Meng, see 
also vol. I, p. 20 ff. 

292 Th e quotation from the / Ching is in vol. I, p. 23. 

292 C Concerning a second consulting of the / Ching, J ung 
writes (in his Introduction to the English edition, 
p. x) : “A repetition of the experiment is impossible for 
the simple reason that the original situation cannot 
be reconstructed. Therefore in each instance there is 1 
only a first and single answer.” 

292 F or the commentary on the sign Fi, see op. cit ., vol. 

I„ p. 178; and a reference in vol. II, p. 299. 

293 The motif Of the “city on the mountain” is discussed 
by K. Kerenyi in Das Ceheirnnis der hohen Slddlt , 

Europaische Revue , 1942, Juli-August-Heft ; and in Essays 

on a Science of Mythology , Bollingen Series XXIII, p. 16. 

294 Jung’s discussions of the motif of four appear, for 
instance, in his Collected Works, vol. IX, XI, XII, and 
XIV; but the problem of the four, with all its impli- 
cations, is woven like a red thread through all his works. 
297 For some of the symbolic meanings ascribed to 
playing cards, see Handworlerhuch des Deutschen Abergtauhens , 
vol. IV, p. 1015, and vol. V, p. 11 10. 

297 The symbolism of the number nine is discussed in 
(among other works) F. V. Hopper’s Medieval Number 
Symbolism . , 1938, p. 138. 

299 Concerning the “night-sea-journey ” pattern of this 
dream, see J. Jacobi, “The Process of I ndividuation,” 
Journal of Analytical Psychology , vol. Ill, no. 2, 1958, p. 95. 

300 The primitive belief in the power of bodily secretions 

is discussed by F. Neumann in Origins of Consciousness 
(German edition), p. 39. 

Science and the unconscious M.-L. von Franz 

304 Th e archetypes as nuclei of the psvche are discussed 
by W. Pauli in Aufsdi.ze und Vortrage iiber Phys/k und 
Erkenntnis-theone , Verlag Vieweg Braunschweig. 1961. 

304 C Concerning the inspiring or inhibiting powe r of the 
archetypes, see C. G. Jung and W. Pauli, Naturerklarung 
und Psyche , Zurich, 1952, p. 163 and passim. 

306 Pauli’s suggestion concerning biology appears in 
Aufsdtze und Vortrage , op. cit., p. 123. 

306 F or further explanation of the statement concerning 
the time required for mutation, see Pauli, op. cit., pp. 123-25. 

306 The story of Darwin and Wallace can be found in 
Henshaw Ward’s Charles Darwin , 1927. 

307 The reference to Descartes is expanded in M.-F. von 
Franz’s “Der Traum des Descartes,” in Studien des C. C. 

Jung Ins Li tuts , called “Zeitlose Dokuments der Seele.” 

307 Kepler’s assertion is discussed by Jung and Pauli 
in Naturerklarung und Psyche, op. cit., p. 117. 

307 Heisenberg’s phrase was quoted by Hannah Arendt 
in The Human Condition , Chicago Univ. Press, 1958, p. 26. 

307 Pauli’s suggestion of parallel psychological and 
physical studies appears in Naturerklarung, op. cit., p. 163. 

307 For Niels Bohr’s ideas of complementarity, see his 
Alomphysik und menschhche Erkenntms, Braunschweig, p. 26 ff. 

308 “M omentum” (of a subatomic particle) is, in 
German, Bewegu ngsgrosse . 

308 Th e statement quoted from Pauli was quoted by 
Jung in “The Spirit of Psychology,” in Jos. Campbell's 
Coll. Papers of the Eranos Tear Book , Bollingen Series XXX, 

1, N.Y. Pantheon Books, 1954, p. 439. 

308 Pauli discusses the “primary possibilities” in 
Vortrage, op. cit., p. 125. 

308 The parallels between microphysics and 
psychological concepts also appear in Vortrage: the 
description of the unconscious by paradoxes, pp. 1 15-16; 
the archetypes as “primary possibilities,” p. 115; the 
unconscious as a “field,” p. 125. 

309 The quotation from Gauss is translated from his 
Werke , vol. X, p. 25, letter to Olbers, and is quoted in B. F. 
van der Waerden, Einfall und IJeberlegung : Drei kleine 
Beitrage zur Psychology des mathematischen Denkens, 

Basel, 1954. 

309 Poincare’s statement is quoted in ibid., p. 2. 

309 Pauli’s belief that the concept of the unconscious 
would affect all natural sciences is in Vortrage, p. 125. 

309 The idea of the possible one-ness of life phenomena 
was taken up by Pauli, ibid., p. 118. 

309 For Jung’s ideas on the “synchronistic arrangement” 
including matter and psyche, see his “Synchronieity : An 
Acausal Connecting Principle,” Coll. Works vol. VIII. 

309 Jung’s idea of the unus mundus follows some medieval 
philosophic ideas in scholasticism (John Duns Scotus, 
etc.) : The unus mundus was the total or archetypal 
concept of the world in God’s mind before he put it into 
actual reality. 

309 T he quotation from Hannah Arendt appears in 
The Human Condition, op. cit., p. 266. 

309 For further discussion of “primary mathematical 
intuitions,” see Pauli, Vortrage, p. 122; and also Ferd. 
Conseth, “Fes mathematiques et la realite,” 1948. 

310 Pauli, following Jung, points out that our conscious 
representations are “ordered” before becoming conscious 
in Vortrage , p. 122. See also Conseth, op. cit. 

310 B. L. van der Waerden's statement is from his 
Einfall und IJeberlegung, op. cit., p. 9. 

3 1 5 


Page numbers in italics refer to captions 
to illustrations. 

aborigines, Australian, 95, 131 , 204, 205 
active imagination, 206-7 
Adam, 70, 82, 200-1 
adolescence, 74, 117, 121, 130, 132, 287 
advertising, 36, 50, 221, 224 
Aeschbacher, Hans, 234 
Aesculapius (Asklepios), 76, 154 
African myths and rites, 24, 43, 45, 82, 235, 
236, 237 

alchemy, 30, 54, 68, 156, 204, 210, 246, 
246 , 254, 262-3, 282 

anima, 30, 31, 97, 123 O'., 152, 177 ff., 205, 
216, 283, 289, 302; eroticism and, 179-80, 
181 ; four stages of, 185-6, 185; as guide, 
182-8, 186, 187 ; and mother, 125 O'., 
178-9; negative, 178-9, 178, 179, 180, 181 ; 
personifications, 178, 180, 183, 185-8; 

positive, 180 O'.; projection of, 180, 183, 
188 ; worship of, 185-8 

animals: in art, 234-9; in fairy tales, 137-9, 
206, 207; in religious symbolism, 21, 29, 
237-9, 239 ; as symbols of Self, 207; and 
transcendence, 149 O’; see also totems 
animus, 30, 97, 136 ff., 177, 189-95, 216; 
and father, 189; four stages of, 194-5, 
194; as group, 191, 192, 193; negative, 
189, 191 ; positive, 192 O'. 

Anthony, St., 49, 180 
Apollo, 149 

archetypes, 47, 66', 67 ff., 68, 81, 90, 96, 
99, 304; definition of, 67-8; see also 

A rend t, Hannah, 309 
Ariadne, 125, 141 
Arp, Jean (or Hans), 252, 259-60 
art: “abstract,” 251, 252 ff., 261 ff. ; cave 
paintings, 148, 235-7; imaginative, 246, 
250 ff., 261 ff.; religious, 232, 237-9, 243, 
243-5, 270, 271 
Artcmidorus, 78 

Arthur, King, 110, 111, 196, 1 98, 215, 215 
Athena, 110, 185 
atomic bomb, 101, 221 
atoms, 22, 307 

Bazaine, Jean, 250, 254, 268 
Beatrice, 183, 186 

“Beauty and the Beast,” 137-40, 193-4 
Bible, the, 72, 74 

bird, as symbol, 151-2, 153-7 
Birkhauser, Peter, 187, 199 
Bischof, Werner, 268, 268 
Blake, William, 54, 72, 186, 219 
Bluebeard, 190, 191 

Bochlin, Arnold, 277, 278, 278, 281, 282 
Bohr, Niels, 307, 308 
Braque, Georges, 253 
Brasilia, 213 

Breton, Andre, 257, 258-9 
Breuer, Josef, 26 
Bronte, Emily, 190 
Brueghel, Pieter, 86, 168 
Buddha and Buddhism, 85, 101-2, 115, 
152, 175, 224, 233, 240, 242; Zen, 75, 
207, 233, 233, 241 
bull, as symbol, 139, 147-8, 147 

Caravaggio, Michelangelo, 47 
Carra, Carlo, 254 
Carroll, Lewis, 53 
Chagall, Marc, 41, 127, 256, 257 
Cheiron, 110, 111 

childhood dreams, 165, 165; ego, 165-6; 
memory, 99, 165 

Chirico, Giorgio de, 170, 254-7 pass. 

Christ, 21, 71, 72, 80, 81, 82, 83, 89, 108, 
142, 145-7, 224, 239, 241; symbols of, 
76, 238-9, 239, 270 

Christianity, 21, 64, 72-4, 75, 85, 101-2, 
142 ff., 185, 187, 238, 241, 245, 270 
Christmas, 81, 107-8 
Christopher, St., 218, 219 
Churchill, Sir Winston, 173 
Circe, 283 

circle, symbol of, 240-9, 259; see also 

circumcision rites, 131, 132, 237 
civilization, stresses of, 45-7, 52, 93-6, 101 
Cleopatra, 184 
Cocteau, Jean, 178, 178 
complementarity, 307, 308 
complexes, 28, 29, 79 

consciousness: evolution of, 23-5, 76, 98; 
four functions of, 60, 61; limits of, 

21, 229; separation from instinct, 83; 
subliminal aspects, 39-43; and the un- 
conscious, 32-8, 39-53, 64, 83-5; see also 

Cosmic Man, 200-2, 201, 202 

Cranach, Lucas, 29, 86 

cross, symbol of, 20, 80, 90, 91, 96, 243-5 

cryptomnesia, 37-8 

crystal, as symbol, 209, 211 \ 

crystal gazing, 28 

Dali, Salvador, 257, 258 
Danae, 280 

dancing, 34, 35, 98, 236 , 236 
Dante Alighieri, 183, 186 
Darwin, Charles, 33, 56, 306 
David ,222 ' 

death, 74, 75, 148, 189-91 ;; 

Delacroix, Eugene, 120, 222 

Delaunay, Robert, 247, 248 
Demeter, 197 
Democritus, 307 
Descartes, Rene, 38, 307 
diamond, as symbol, 21 7 
Dionysus, 141 ff. 
disk, symbol of, 215 

dissociation, 24-5, 24, 52, 83-5, 213, 221 , 
222, 249 

dragons, 41, 74, 120-1, 123, 125-6, 156 
dreams, 20 ff., 38, 41, 63, 64, 72, 74, 76, 
78; analogies in, 64, 78; analysis, 32, 
43, 55-8, 96, 99; compensatory, 31, 50-3, 
62-3, 67, 74, 95; descriptions and trans- 
criptions, 43, 49, 50, 53-4, 56, 57, 66, 
69 ff, 116, 132, 135, 136, 137, 139, 140, 
145, 152-3, 163, 165, 169-71, 183-5, 192, 
276 ff. pass.; dream books, 53; guidance 
from, 208; individuation process and, 
161-2; nature of, 39; primitive ideas 
of, 52, 161-2; recurring, 33-4, 62, 160; 
rejection of, 29, 31, 39, 50, 52; sexuality 
in, 29, 92; sleep and, 63; the unconscious 
and, 27 ff, 63-4, 78, 98; warnings from, 
50-1, 74-5, 78 
drugs, 259, 260 
Duchamp, Marcel, 252-3 

earth altar, 162, 162 
Easter, symbolism of, 108, 142 
Eckhart, Meister, 202 
Eden, Garden of, 86 

ego: and anima, 185; and animus, 193; 
and hero myth, 112, 118-21, 123, 126-8, 
132; and individuation, 165-7 ; and shadow, 
118-21, 168 ff; and Self, 128 ff, 149, 161, 
161-4, 197 ff, 208, 213 f., 240 
Eleusinian mysteiies, 79, 148, 280 
Elijah, 286 
Eliot, T. S., 152 
Elizabeth II, Queen, 71, 200 
emotion, 61, 91, 99 
Ensor, James, 296 
Epona, 98 
Epstein, Jacob, 47 

Ernst, Max, 220, 233, 234, 253, 258, 260 

Eros and Psyche, 193 

von Eschenbach, Wolfram, 187 

Escorial, Spain, 275 

L'Etoile. Place de, 242 

Eve, 185, 188 

existentialism, 163 

extra version and introversion, 58, 59-60, 
171, 172 

Ezekiel, vision of, 20, 45, 74 

fairy tales, 167, 767, 193, 1.96, 1 97, 206, 
207, 279, 289; Bath Badgerd, 216; 

Beauty and the Beast, 137-40, 193; 

Cinderella, 1 76, 197 
Faust, 81, 121 

feeling function, 61, 99, 185. 278. 286 
Feiffer, Jules, 58 

3 l6 

fertility rites, 79, 106-8, 107 , 142, 147-8, 
154-6, 235, 237, 286 
Fierz-David, Linda, 145 
fire, as symbol, 78 
First Man, 200-2, 202 
Flaubert, Gustave, 182 
fortune telling, 28 

four, motif of, 21 , 70, 71, 72, 112, 199, 
200, 213, 225, 226, 240-2, 249, 289, 293, 
299; and the anima, 185, 187 ; and the 
animus, 194, 194; and the Self, 213 
Frederick the Great, 55, 55 
free association, 26-31, 27, 28 
Freud, Sigmund, 25, 26, 47, 56, 63, 64, 
67, 99, 227, 285; and dream analysis, 
56-7; free association theory, 26-31; and 
Jung, 57 

Friedrich, Kaspar, 214 
Fuseli, Henry, 63, 192 

Gandhi, Mahatma, 58, 194 
Gauguin, Paul, 184 
Gauss, Karl, 308 
Gayomart, 200, 217 
George, St., 237 

God, 72, 82, 186; “death of,” 255, 267; 
dreams and, 102 

Goethe, Johann W. von, 81, 121, 123, 

185, 186, 277 
Gossaert, Jan, 280 

Goya, Francesco, 41, 65, 74 

Grandville, Jean Gerard, 298 

Great Mother, 81, 94, 95, 98, 125 ff., 141, 

154, 205; 224, 225 

Great rakes, Valentine, 286 

Grosz, Georg, 283 

Griinewald, Matthias, 49 

Hades and Persephone, 189 
Haffenrichter, Hans, 211 
Haggard, H. Rider, 186, 187 
Hare, myth of, 112 0'. 

Heisenberg, Werner, 229, 307 
Helen of Troy, 184 
Hemingway, Ernest, 194 
Hercules (Heracles), 110, 168 
hermaphrodite, 30, 203 , 204, 278 
Hermes, 154-6 

Hermetic philosophy, 73, 156 
hero myth, 72-3, 78-9, 110 ff., 128, 131 ff., 

Hinduism, 42, 90, 91, 92, 136, 151, 175 , 
203, 206, 237-8, 239 
Hitler, Adolf, 79, 111, 173 
Hobbes, Thomas, 201 
Holy Ghost, 142-3 

horse, as symbol, 98, 170, 174; winged, 

Horus, 20, 21, 79, 242 

hybris, 110, 113, 114, 121 

Hypnerolomachia (Dream of Poiiphilo), 41, 

186, 278 

hysteria, 33-4, 34, 35: collective infection, 

Icarus, 121 

1 Ching or Book of Changes , The, 291-3, 

imagination, 92 
“imaginative” art, 246, 250 ff. 
immortality, 87, 148 
incest fear, 138-9 

India, 43, 240; see also Hinduism, 


individuation, 90, 160 ff. ; beginnings, 

164-7; definition, 160-1; difficulties of, 
166, 175-6; meandering pattern of, 160, 
160 ; process of, 160 ff. ; and religion, 
224-9; and society, 218-24 
inferiority, 62-4 

initiation rites, 74, 129 ff., 132, 134, 143, 
146, 148, 153-4, 157 

inspiration, 38, 306, 307; drugs and, 260 
instinct, 52, 68, 69, 75-6, 83, 94, 239 
introversion, see extraversion 
intuition function, 60, 61, 92 
Ishtar, 277 
Isis, 186 

Jacob’s dream, 209, 233 

Jacoby, Erhard, 39, 229 

James, William, 308 

Jerusalem, 208 * 

Joan of Arc, 189 
Job, 73 

Jonah, 119, 120 

Jung, C. G., 9 ff., 26, 53, 56, 106, 107, 
109, 118, 128, 129, 142-3, 149, 156, 160, 
161, 162, 165, 168, 173, 177, 185, 198, 

203 , 207, 208, 211, 212, 213, 225, 240, 

241, 243, 247, 248, 249, 255, 257, 260, 

261, 265, 267, 277, 281, 285, 287, 291, 

294, 302, 304-10 pass.; and Freud, 26-8, 

Kandinsky, W r assily, 247, 248, 250, 251-3, 

Kant, Immanuel, 56 
Kekule, Friedrich, 38, 38 
Kepler, Johannes, 307 
Klee, Paul, 167, 247, 248, 254, 262, 262 , 
263-4, 263, 269 
Koran, the, 175 
Krishna, 224 

Kuhn, Herbert, 234-6 pass., 246, 250 
Ku Klux Klan, 168 
Kwan-Yin, 97, 187-8 

landscapes, in dreams, 214, 215 
Landseer, Edwin, 280 
“laying on of hands,” 286, 286 
Leda and the Swan, 239 
Leger, Fernand, 270 
Leonardo da Vinci, 27, 245 
Leucippus, 307 

Leviathan, 201 . 

Levy-Briihl, Lucien, 24 
Lippold, Richard, 230 
Lloyd George, David, 194 

Lourdes. 285 
Lucia, St., festival of, 80 
Lucifer, 72, 267 
Lull, Raimon, 76 
Lur^at, Jean, 268, 271 
Luther, Martin, 175 

Magdalen, St. Mary, 217 
Magritte, Rene, 255 
Malevich, Kasimir, 251, 253 
mandala, 21, 158, 165 , 166, 199, 213-17, 
213, 214, 215, 225, 227, 289, 299, 302; 
in architecture, 242-5; in art, 240 ff., 
240, 242, 243, 246, 248 
Manessier, Alfred, 268, 270, 271 
Marc, Franz, 261, 262, 263 
Marini, Marino, 266-7, 266’ 

Mark, St., 21, 89 
marriage, 134, 137; sacred, 134-6 
Mary, the Virgin, 118, 185, 185 , 187, 188, 

masks, 24, 45, 104, 127, 236, 238 
Mass, Catholic, 142-3 
Masson, Andre, 217 
Mathieu, Georges, 265 
Matisse, Henri, 247 
mediums, 77, 151 
Medusa, 205 
megalomania, 62-4, 89 
menhirs, 233, 233 
menstruation, 132 
Mcphistopheles, 121 
Mercury, 156 
microphysics, 306-9 
Miro, Joan, 253 
“misoncism,” 23, 31, 33 
Mithras, 147, 237 
Mohammed, 156, 188, 210, 210 
Mona Lisa, 185, 186 
Mondrian, Piet, 248, 249, 262, 262, 263 
moon, the, 97, 276, 277 
Moricnus, 210 
Moses, 45, 175 
Mt. Williamson, 208 
Mt. Rush more, 208 
Mozart, Wolfgang, 178 
mungu, 81 

mysteries, 131, 141, 142; Eleusinian, 79, 
148, 280 

myths and mythology: Babylonian, 111, 
237; Celtic, 98, 204; Chinese, 97, 187-8, 
200, 201, 202; Egyptian, 19, 20, 22, 
53, 55, 79, 89, 132, 155, 155, 156, 170, 
171, 237-8, 242, 296; Eskimo, 177, 196, 
216, 228; Greek, 51, 76, 76, 78-9, 90, 106, 
107, 110, 111, 113, 114, 124, 124-5, 140, 
141, 142-3, 142 fi, 1 44, 147, 154, 156, 
177, 184, 185, 189, 193, 197, 205, 238, 239, 
280, 282, 282; Haida Indians, 72; hero, 
72-3, 110 ff, ; and individuation, 167; 
Mayan, 42; Naskapi Indians, 161-2, 
208, 213; Navaho Indians, 71, 74, 114, 
114, 126, 213, 215; Norse, 108, 113, 
122, 238; Persian, 108, 111, 147, 200, 


217, 237; Pueblo Indians, 89; Roman, 
110, 115 , 142, 144 , 154, 242; Scandinavian, 
///; Slavonic, 1 78; Teutonic, 178 

Nash, Paul, 248, 249 

Navaho Indians, 71, 74, 114, 114, 126, 
213, 215 

Neumann, Erich, 304, 309 
Nicholson, Ben, 246 
Nietzsche, Friedrich, 37, 74, 255 
No drama, 236, 238 

numbers, mythological aspects of, 40, 
42, 297, 307, 309-10; see also four 
numinosity, 79, 93, 94-9, 101 
Nut, 118, 132 

obsession, 47 
Oedipus, 181 

oracles and omens, 51, 211, 290-3 
Orpheus, 141 ff. 

Osiris, 79 

Palmanova, Italy, 242 
Paul, St., 47, 89 

Pauli, Wolfgang, 261, 307-9 pass. 

Penn, William, 86 
Perseus, 110, 125, 125 
persona, 287, 287 
phallus, 91-2, 143, 156 
philosopher’s stone, 205, 210 
phoenix, 297, 298 
physics, nuclear, 261, 307 ff. 

Picasso, Pablo, 147, 252, 253, 260 
pig, as symbol, 148, 153, 154, 282, 283 
Plutarch, 242 
Poincare, Henri, 38, 309 
Pollock, Jackson, 264, 264 
Pompeii, 267 

Priestley, J. B., 277, 278, 279, 304 
primitives, 43, 52, 53, 55, 67, 74, 76, 79, 
81, 88, 90, 93, 94, 98-9, 106-9, 110, 122, 
126, 127, 128, 129, 140, 148, 149, 153-4, 
1 77, 206, 208, 233-7, 233, 237, 239, 243, 
246, 285, 286, 300; “bush soul,” 24, 24, 
25, 45; initiation, 130 ff., 131, 134; obses- 
sion, 47 ; possession, 34, 35 
propaganda, 79, 86, 221, 222, 224 
psyche: animal, 75-6; conjpass of, 60; 
development of, 66, 67, 75-6, 99; nucleus 
of, 161-7 pass., 196 ff. pass . ; structure, 
161, 161, 165 ; totality of, 161-7 pass., 
196 ff. pass. 

psychic associations, 27-31, 39-54 
psychic manifestations, 55, 306 
psychoanalysis: and Freud, 25-8, 56-8; 

individual approach to, 57-8, 65-6, 92; 
types in, 58 ff. 
psychological types, 58 ff. 

Pythagoreans, 40, 42 

quaternity, see four 

Radin, Paul, 112 
Raven, 72 

Read, Sir Herbert, 265 

rebirth, 72, 74, 75, 107-9, 123, 130, 132, 
145 ff., 296, 297 
regression, 124 

religion: and art, 235, 240 ff., 270; failure 
of, 94, 101; and individuation, 224-9; 
in modern life, 85-9, 101-2; symbolism 
in, 21, 21, 55, 55, 75-6, 79, 80, 81, 82, 
89, 89-91, 96, 108, 142-3, 145 ff., 225-6, 
237-9, 239; see also Buddha, Christiani- 
ty, Hinduism, Mohammed 
Rembrandt, 103 
Renaissance, the, 244-5, 253 
Renoir, Auguste, 245 
river crossing, motif of, 198, 199 
Roditi, fidouard, 265-7 
Rome, foundation of, 242 
Roosevelt, Eleanor, 200 
Rorschach, Hermann, 27 
Rosati, James, 234 
rose: white, 138, 241; window, 159 
Russia, 28, 49, 86, 250 

sacrifice, of hero, 1 20, 121-3, 131 ff. ; of 
animals, 47, 147, 148, 237 
Salome, 179 
Sapientia, 185, 186 
Satan, 72, 226, 227 
scarab beetles, 296, 297 
schizophrenia, 65, 261 
Schopenhauer, Arthur, 56, 255 
Schweitzer, Dr. Albert, 200 
Schwitters, Kurt, 252, 253-4 
Self, 128-9, 161 ff.; definition, 161, 161-2; 
and ego, 128 ff., 162, 215-17; and indivi- 
duation, 163-4; personifications of, 196 
ff. ; realization of, 212 ff. ; and shadow, 
173-6; social aspects of, 218 ff. ; symbols 
of, 187, 207 ff., 212 ff., 240 ff., 302 
sensation function, 60-1, 60, 240 
serpents (and snakes), 35, 38, 70, 74, 
76, 152, 154-6, 154, 239 
sexual symbolism, 29, 29, 30, 91-2 
shadow, 93, 118, 168 ff., 294 
Shakespeare, William, 192 
shamans, 149, 151, 177-8, 177, 236 
Shelley, Percy Bysshe, 194 
signs, 20, 55, 55 
Soulages, Pierre, 271, 271 
spiral motif, 225-6, 227 
spirit in matter, 205, 208, 253 ff. 
square, symbol of the, 242, 246, 247, 
248-9, 248 
Stalin, J.V., 234 
Stevenson, Robert Louis, 24, 38 
stone, symbolism of, 43, 204, 205, 207, 
208, 208-11, 210, 217, 232-5 
sun symbols, 21, 22, 241, 246, 296, 303 
superstition, 82, 94-6, 290 
surrealism, 257-8, 258 

Switzerland, 204, 219, 236, 276, 285, 298 f. 
symbols and symbolism, 22, 29, 43, 52, 
53, 55, 64, 66, 90, 90-9, 102, 103, 106-9, 
118, 122-3, 127, 129, 132, 138, 142, 147, 
149-57, 160-229 pass.; definition, 21-2, 

54; in art, 232 ff . ; religious, 21, 21, 22, 
55, 72-3, 75-6, 76, 79, 80, 81, 82, 89, 
89-91, 90, 96, 108, 142-3, 145 ff., 185-7, 
200-3, 224-9, 237-9; sexual, 29, 29, 30, 
91-2 ; of totality, 196-211 
synchronicity, 55, 211, 291, 306, 310 

Tarzan, 194 

Theseus, 110, 125, 125 

thinking function, 60, 60-1 

Thurber, James, 64, 78 

Tibet: prayer wheel, 28; mandalas, 240 

Tintoretto, 245 

totality, circle symbols of, 240-9; other 
symbols, 196-21 1 pass. 
totems, 45, 129, 129, 237 
de la Tour, Georges, 217 
Trakl, Georg, 260 
transcendence, 149 ff. 

tree symbol, 43, 45, .76, 80, 81, 90, 153, 
161-4, 187 

Tremois, Pierre-Yves, 271 

Trickster, 112 ff, 113, 140, 149, 151, 156 

Trinity, the, 225, 307 

Trois Freres caves, 235-6, 236 

Tuc d’Audubert cave, 235-6 

Turner, William, 289 

Twins myth, 112 ff., 115, 124, 130, 132 

unconscious, the, 20 ff. ; collective, 55, 
67, 107; and consciousness, 32-8, 63-4; 
and ego, 118, 217; fear and rejection of, 
93, 98, 102; knowledge from, 37-8, 76-8, 
76; neurosis and, 34; and religion, 55, 
225-9; see also psyche 

unidentified flying objects (UFOs), 249, 249 
utopia concepts, 85, 86 

Valentino, Rudolph, 194 

Villa de Misteri (Pompeii), 143, 143 

visions, 20, 45, 47 

Voltaire, Francois, 220, 221 

Waerden, B. L. van der, 310 
Wagner, Richard, 193 
war, motif of, 107, 108 
Washington, George, 198 
wise old man, 98, 196, 198 
wise old woman, 196, 277, 279 
witch doctors, 45, 82; see also shamans 
witches, 177, 181, 188 

women: as anima figures, 177 ff. ; and 
the animus, 189 ff. ; and the irrational, 
177, 177, 195; see also wise old woman, 
Great Mother 
word-association tests, 28 
World War I, 120 
World War II, 94, 108, 111, 198 
Worringer, Wilhelm, 265 

Yang and Yin, 290 
yantra, 240, 240 

zodiac, 237 


Illustration credits 

Key: (B) bottom; (C) center; (L) left; (M) middle; (R) right; 
(T) top; and combinations, e.g. (BR) (TL) 

Academia de San Fernando, Madrid, 65(BR); © A.D. A.G.P., 
Paris, 216(BL), 271(ML){BR) ; courtesy Administrationskanzlei 
des Naturhistorischen Museums, Wien, 285(BC); Aerofilms and 
Aero Pictorial, 218(BL), 243(TL); Signor Agnelli, 251 (BR); 
Albertina, Vienna, 169(BL); Aldus Archives, 129{L), 220(TL) ; 
Alte Pinakothek, Munich, 87(BR), 1 1 5 C BR) , 280; American 
Museum of Natural History, 68(BL); courtesy the Archbishop 
of Canterbury and the Trustees of Lambeth Palace Library, 
156(BL); Archives Photographiques, Paris, 204(TR); The Art 
Institute of Chicago, Potter Palmer Collection, 245(BR); Arts 
Council of Great Britain, 147; Ruth Berenson & Norbert Muhlen, 
George Grosz 1961 , Arts Inc., New York, 283; Associated Press, 
79(BL). Courtesy Miss Ruth Bailey, 52, 57, 198(TC) ; Collection 
Frau Dr. Lydia Bau, 220(MR) ; Bayreuther Festspiele, 192(MR) ; 
Berlin Staatl. Museen, Antikenabteilung, 5 1 (BL) ; Bibliotheque de 
la Bourgeoisie, Berne, 188(BG) ; Bibliotheque Nationale, Paris, 99, 
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Peter Birkhauser, 187(TR), 199; Black Star, 35(BL), 59(BR), 
1 17(BL), 201 (TL), 235(TR) ; The Blue Angel (director: Joseph 
von Sternberg), Germany, 1930, 179(M); Bodleian Library, 
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72(L), 107(BC) ; British Crown Copyright, 71(R), 120(TR); 
courtesy the Trustees of the British Museum, 21, 38(BL), 42(T), 
53(BR), 54(M), 55(BL), (Natural History) 66, 105, 107(BLj, 
110(BL), 1 1 1 (ML) (MC), 1 15(T), 124(BL), 125(BRj (BL), 133, 
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197(TL), 198(TL), 209(BL), 216(BR), 259(T), 273, 281, 
298(BL); Shirley Burroughs, 80 (T). Cabinet des Medaillcs, 
Paris, I41(BL)(BR); Cairo Museum, 22(T); Camera Press, 
47(TL), 97(B), lll(BR), 194(BL) ; Jonathan Cape Limited, 
London, from Angkor Wat, Malcolm MacDonald, 91 (BR); 
Central Press, 50(TR) ; W. & R. Chambers Limited, from 
Twentieth Century Dictionary , 45; Church of England Information 
Office, 30(R) ; CIBA Archives, Basle, 239(MR); courtesy Jean 
Cocteau, 138, 139, 178(BL); Compagnie Aerienne Fran<;aisc, 
242 (TL) ; Contemporary Films Ltd., (Jgetsu Monogatari (director: 
Kenji Mizoguchi), Japan, 1953, 182(T) and %ero de Conduite 
(director: Jean Vigo), Franfilmdis Production, France, 1933, 
116; Conzett & Huber, Zurich, 26(T), 166(BL), 188(MC), 
265, 293; Cornell University Press, Ithaca, New York, 68(BR); 
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(BL). Daiei Motion Picture Company Ltd., 182(T); courtesy 
Madame Delaunay, 248 (TR) ; Maya Deren, The Living Gods of 
Haiti , 35(TL) (TO) (TR) ; by courtesy of Walt Disney Produc- 
tions, 110 (BR) ; La Dolce Vila (director: Federico Fellini), 
Italy/France, 1959, 166(BR); courtesy Madame Trix Diirst- 
Haass, 263(TR); Collection Dutuit, 241 (TL). Edinburgh Uni- 
versity Library, 1 1 9 (BR ) , 210(ML); Editions Albert Guillot, 
Paris, 209(BR); Editions d’Art, Paris, 271 (TR); Editions Hoa- 
Qui, Paris, 44; Editions Houvet, 20; Education and Television 
Films Ltd., 112 ( BL) ; Esquire Magazine © 1963 by Esquire, 
Inc., 51 (TR). Faber & Faber Ltd., London, Dance and Drama in 
Bali , by Beryl de Zoete and Walter Spies, 126; Jules Feiffer, 
permission of the artist’s agent, 58; Find Your Man , Warner 

Bros., 1924, 206(BL); W. Foulsham & Co. Ltd., London, 
53(BL); courtesy M.-L. von Franz, 2 15(M.L) (BL), 227; French 
Government Tourist Office, London, 1 27 (BR), 232 (T), 243 (TR) ; 
artist Henrard, Frobenius-Institut an der Johann Wolfgang 
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& Philippe Luzuy, 88, 237(BL); Imperial War Museum, 
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The Jewish Institute of History, Warsaw, 94(BL); courtesy the 
family of G. G. Jung, 56; Karsh of Ottawa, frontispiece; Key- 
stone, 108(BR), 157, 172(B), 210(MR), 235(TL); Christopher 
Kitson, 90; Kunsthaus, Zurich, 188(MC); Kunsthistorisches 
Museum, Vienna, 29, 188(TL), 244; Kunstmuseum, Basle, 
219(BC), 248(BR), 258(TL), 279(TL); Kunstmuseum, Berne, 
263(TL); Larousse, Editeurs, Paris, from La Mythologie by Felix 
Guirand, 119(T), 179(BL), drawings by I. Bilibin; Lascaux 
chapelle de la prehistoric , F. Windcls, 148; Leyden University 
Library, 31 (T); Libreria dello Stato, Roma, La Villa dei Misteri , 
Prof. Maiuri, 142-3(T); London Express, 270; Longmans, 
Green & Co. Ltd., London, 1922, Mazes and Labyrinths , W. H. 
Matthews, 171 (ML)(MC)(MR) ; Macmillan & Co. Ltd., 
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46, 150(BL), 190(BR), 191, 197(R), 201 (BL), 205, 209(BL), 
220(TR), 239(MC) ; Marlborough Fine Art Gallery Ltd., 
London, 252(TR); © The Medici Society Ltd., 150(T); The 
Medium (director: Gian-Carlo Menotti), Italy/U.S.A., 1951, 
177(BR); Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Inc., 24, 182(BL); Metropolis 
(director: Fritz Lang), Germany, 1926, 223(BR); courtesy The 
Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, 30(L) (The Cloisters 
Collections Purchase), 40(T) (gift of M. Knoedler & Co., 1918), 

1 19(BR), 184(TR) (gift of William Church Osborn, 1949), 231 
(Fletcher Fund, 1956); Modern Times , Charles Chaplin, United 


Artists Corporation Ltd., 113(BR); The Pierpont Morgan 
Library, New York, 73, 201 (BR); Mother Joan of the Angels , Film 
Polski, 1960, (fj) Contemporary Films Ltd., 168; Mt. Wilson and 
Palomar Observatories, 23, 103(R); Prof. Erwin W. Muller, 
Pennsylvania State University, 22(BR); Musee de Cluny, Paris, 
225; Musee Conde, Chantilly, lll(MR), 184(BL), 226; Musee 
Ensor, Ostend, 296(B); Musee Etrusque de Vatican, 114(BR); 
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Paris, 97 (T), 241 (BL) ; Musee Gustave Moreau, Paris, 1 79(BR) ; 
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241 (TL); Musees de Bordeaux, 120(BR); Museo Nazionale, 
Napoli, 124(BR); Museo del Prado, Madrid, 75; The Museum 
of Navaho Ceremonial Art Inc., New Mexico, 71 (TL), 1 14(BL), 
214(BRj; Museum fur Volkerkunde, Basle, 127(L); Museum 
fur Volkerkunde, Berlin, 177(BC), 300. Nasjonalgalleriet, Oslo, 
87(BL); The National Gallery of Canada, 47(TR); National 
Gallery, London, 83, 122, 288; National Museum, Athens, 76; 
The National Museum, Copenhagen, 242(TR); ® National 
Periodical Publications Inc:., New York, lll(BC); National 
Portrait Gallery, London, 190(T), 207(B); Dr. Neel & Uni.v. 
of Chicago Press, Human Heredity , Neel & Schull, (C) 1954, 31 (B ) ; 
Max Niehans Verlag, Zurich, 108(BL); Newsweek , 307; The New 
York limes, 134(BL); Nigeria Magazine, 43; The Nuns Story 
(director: Fred Zinneman), U.S.A., 1957 9, 134(TLj; Ny 
Carlsberg Glyptotek, Copenhagen, 113(BC). Olympic Museum, 
Athens, 185(BC); On the Bowery (director: Lionel Rogosin), 
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Antwerp, 266(MR); Count Don Alfonso Orombelli, Milan, 
256(ML); (U) Daniel O’Shea, 189(BLj. Palermo Museum. 
I44(TL) ; Paris Match , 270; Passion de Jeanne d' Arc (director: Carl 
Dreyer), France, 1928, 91 (BL); Paul Popper, 25(BL), 28(BLj, 
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Lines, 151 ; courtesy H. M. Postmaster-General, 25(BR) ; Private 
Collection, London, 203(BL); Private Collection, New York, 
256(BL) ; Punch , 33(L); Putnam & Co. Ltd., London, 1927, by 
permission, from The Mind and Face of Bolshevism by Rene Fulopp- 
M idler, 107(BR); G. P. Putnam’s Sons, New York, 1953, & 
Spring Books Ltd., London, from A Pictorial History of the Silent 
Screen by Daniel Blum, 123. Radio Times Hulton Picture Library, 
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1 65 (BL) ; Rath bone Books Ltd., 194(TML); Realties, 2I2(BL); 
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York, 1961, & Eugen Diederichs Verlag, Diisseldorf, 1951, the 
/ Ching or Book of Changes, 291 (BL ) ; courtesy Miss Ariane Rump, 
201 (TR). Salvat Editores S.A., 275(BL); Sandoz Ltd., Basle, 
259(B); Scala, 77, 118, 144(BL), 155 (BR;; Slavko, 187(BR); 
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266 (BR; ; f) S.F. A.D.E.M., Paris, 1964, 147, 167, 247(B), 
252 (BR s, 263 (TL) ; Staatliche Museen, Berlin-Dahlem, 144(BR i ; 
Staat Luzern, 189(BC); Staatsgemaldesammlungen, Munchen, 
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Tartan and his Mate '(director : Cedric Gibbons;, U.S.A., 1934, 
194(TL) ; Tate Gallery, London, 72(R), 186(R), 249(BL), 
264(BR), 271 (BR) ; They Came to a City,}. B. Priestley (director: 
Basil Deardon), Gt. Britain, 1944, 279(TR); (Q 1935 James 
Thurber (Q 1963 Helen Thurber, from Thurher's Carnival (orig. 
publ. in The New Yorker ), 78(BR); T) James 'I’hurber 1933, 
33(R); Titanic (director: Herbert Selpin), Germany, 1943, 
121 (BR) ; Topix, London, 59(BL), 200(TR) ; Tosh odaiji Temple, 
Japan, 175(BL); Trianon Press, Jura, France, from the Blake 
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Uni-Dia-Verlag, 19; USAF Academy, 129(BCi; U.S. Coast and 
Geodetic Survey, 100(Ts; United States Information Service, 
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Albert Museum, London, 48(B), 109(T)(BL), 115(BL), 136, 
163, 1 74' BR 198(T C 203(MLj(BR . 206(ML;; Ville de 

Strasbourg, 70; Volkswagen Ltd., 36. Collection of Walker Art 
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Mrs. Hans Zinsser, from G. F. Kunz, The Magic of Jewels and 
Charms , 207 (ML); Zentralbibliothek Zurich, 248(TR). 

Cover photograph : Tibetan Mandala, photo L. Courteville Top 

Photographers : 

Ansel Adams, 208(BL); Alinari, 46; David G. Allen, Bird 
Photographs Inc., 68(F); Douglas Allen, 222(ML). Werner 
Bischof, 22(BL), 269; Joachim Blauel, 261(B); Leonardo Bonzi, 
135(BL) ; Edouard Boubat, 212(BL); Mike Busselle, 28(BR), 
93(BL], collages 121(BL)(BR), 135(BR), 180(TR), 18KB), 
I83(TR)(BR)‘ montages 190(T), 207(TL), 212(BR), 219(BR); 
Francis Brunei, 239(TR). Robert Capa, 194(TMR), 198(B); 
Cartier-Bresson, 34, 172(T); Chuzeville, 276(B); Franco Cian- 
etti, 264(BL) ; Prof. E. J. Cole, 258(BR); J. B. Collins, 35(ML) 
(MC); Ralph Crane, 117(BL). N. Elswing, 242(TR). John 
Freeman, 105, 107(BL), 171 (TR), 195(TL), 197(TL), 259(MR), 
281, 298(BL). Ewing Galloway, 82(BL) ; Marcel Gautherot, 213; 
Georg Gerster, 109(BR); Roger Guillemot, 89. Ernst Haas, 
146(BR) ; Leon Herschtritt, 84; Hinz, Basle, 1 27 ( L) , 219(BC), 
258(T). Isaac, 35(BL). William Klein, 86(BL). Lavaud, 97(T), 
1 59, 241 (BL) ; Louise Leiris, 261 (BL) ; Dr. Ivar Lissner, 149( BR) ; 
Sandra Lousada at Whitecross Studio, 1 75(BR) ; Kurt & Margot 
Lubinskv, 149(BL). Roger Mayne, 164(BR); Don McCullin, 
287; St. Anthony Messenger, 143(B); Meyer, 29; John Moore, 
72(R 238(BL)* 252(BL). Jack Nisberg, 256(TR). Michael 
Peto, 164(BL) ; Axel Poignant, 95, 128, 130, 131, 204(MR). 
Allen C. Reed, 74, 214(T). Sabat, 65(BR); Prof. Roger Sauler, 
243(BL); Kees Scherer, 35(BR); Emil Schulthess, 201 (TC); 
Carroll Seghers, 98 (TR); Brian Shu el, 55 (BR), 129(BR); 
Dennis Stock, 238(T); David Sw'ann, 21, 48(B), 53(BL), 
54(M), 66, 109(T)(BL), 110(BL), 115(’T)(BL), 133, 136, 
155(T), 163, 1 74(BR), 186(BL), 188(BL), 190(BL), 198(TR), 
203(BR) (ML), 206(ML), 264(BR), 302, 303. Felix Trombe, 
234(TC). Y r illani & Figli Frl., 80(BL). Yoshio Watanabe, 
232(B); Hans Peter Widmer, 305). 

If the publishers have unwittingly infringed copyright in any 
illustration reproduced they will gladly pay an appropriate fee 
on being satisfied as to the owner's title. 

3 -° 

(Continued from front flap) 

More than 500 illustrations comple- 
ment the text and provide a unique 
“running commentary” on Jung's 
thought. They show the nature and 
function of dreams; explore the sym- 
bolic meaning of modern art; and re- 
veal the psychological meanings of the 
ordinary experiences of everyday life. 
They are a reinforcement to Jung’s 
thought and an integral part of Man 
and His Symbols. 

‘\ . . [Contemporary man] is blind to 
the fact that, with all his rationality 
and efficiency, he is possessed by ‘pow- 
viial are beyond his control. His 
gods and demons have not disappeared 
at all; they have merely got new names. 
They keep him on the run with rest- 
lessness, vague apprehensions, psycho- 
logical complications, an insatiable 
need for pills, alcohol, tobacco, food— 
and, above all, an impressive array of 

Carl Gustav Jung 

Tibetan Mandala photo R6alit6s Paris. 

Printed in Spain 


Man and his Symbols 
Carl G.Jung